The Termite-nest of Epiphanies 

Moments and days levigate your
termite-nest; you hold on to your 
existence, build it back with a paste
of will and void. I see you in the wind’s 
balcony. A bird warns all who may listen to it
that a dense rain will fall. You hustle and bustle 
with the nit-bits that make you what you are.
The rain arrives. Every detail from now
disappears into the future. The gully
of broken concrete ripples and  streams.
The cornices become shelters. My mother 
murmurs inside my ears, “Come home.”
I itch my lobes. I do not know the art
you have mastered.

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