Lord take a semi and smash this red house of brick into smithereens
so that there is only red dust and chunks. Construct a sycamore in its place. Bark
molded out of clay, leaves snipped from the nylon skin of kites.
Let it grow each year, gears biting, lifting, turning, shoving out
the bark walls a millimeter each time. And each year, let the boughs
randomly self-pluck the neck of kite-leaves. When the mute wind sings, it
yanks up into the air, like surprised pigeons, these kite children higher
than all the birds in the air. They are called to have space between the flat-round earth
and their flapping faces, taking turns glancing at the blue-brown-blue-brown-blue-brown.