The point of a pen opens a hole 
into a soul’s dereliction. This search 

for the right word bores through stone. 
Sunlight takes no measure of what is clung to. 

A man can place the half-dome 
of a tomato, slice into flesh, 

and cut an island of loss. Migrant, 
punished by spice and the scent of cooking, 

you wake up on a cold day in another country 
and put your faith in hot rice and braised goat, 

and the persistent aftertaste of a lost home.
Gospels are made of less than this. 

But outside it is morning. A summer breeze 
burns down to the water and the ocean begins.