He etches a map to the next world
into his body with each breath,
imprinted as a tenderness
between his teeth-comb ribs
dislodging the dandruff
of his hopes.
He is beginning the ascent
from limbo, prayers paid
for permeable edges
between the concentric
circles of life and death.
Walking alien sidewalks
he spies on the wind
in its endless pursuit,
hears the name of the
lost child she is
calling.
He absorbs the sterility
of a new world; cleanses
the mother tongue from his
language, discards the lint of
memory of a land
from between his toes.
He is a snowflakes slow crescendo,
one among many,
He is ascending,
and who knows if we survive
by our small deaths?
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