Many times from a rooftop

the red chimneys, brick and iron,

stubbed from so many fiery lengths.

I command what I cannot control,

the sun, if I rise first. I am the original

pukka, an unknown match.

Over lands I defy gravity, all graves,

the hollow bone suffused with red blood,

my own tremor and disdain.

Now the day is filling with its problematic

proofs, snakes uncurling around the fruit.

Remember, even when memory unglues

all my resolution on the revolving roof,

I touched clouds while clear-minded,

I would never go into my temple, drunk.