^{for Wolfgang Laib}

a life
of collecting pollen
from hazelnut bushes
a life of gathering word-grains 
to find all you have wanted
all you have waited to say

five
mountains
we cannot climb
hills we cannot touch 
perhaps we are only here
to say house, bridge, or gate

a passage
to somewhere else 
yellow molecules 
spooned and sifted 
from a jar filled with

sunlight 
pouring
milk over stone
you are the energy
that breaks form 

building wax 
houses pressed 
from combs a wax room
set upon a mountain an offering 

of rice 
nowhere 
everywhere
the songs of Shams