Come August ,this body turns a torso with the sacred thread from left to right on my chest slung under a bare chest cloth.
My lips lost to the smoked thought, I await a spirit dancing on fire and its assistant wood smoke,a crow to pick up a ball of rice on a glass spiked backyard wall. Body in thought is a rarefied air ,the body’s body ,looking for food.Come August, body is smoke.
I change the thread right to left ,my thoughts on body’s mom ,my thoughts on bodies in air ,my future body on bamboo.
My thread back to my drawer, I await the next August if there will be .August is the possibility of thread , body may yet be a substance.Thread may hang left to right awaiting another smoke on fire.