WINDOWS

Air is our cement. 

Walls built with nothing but breath between the stones 

lattice fields to wheatgrass diadems; window me

                                         on steepled hills

land raised to a voice

so vast mountains are cobblestoned

& hair contrails, rummaging the wind for its lost

composure

The hem of my grandfathers mouth unspools

        the path home in peat tendrils:

The kissing gates with the nettles sting in them

         The styles like a step ladder into gorged ether  

                                        Where he met my grandmother 

                                                              Sky starred with crows

A keloid of cottage in the distance; windows buttered-glow

       -       the homeothermy of my grandparents fireside   Adref    

                                   a home I mispronounce