Burnt Handwriting by David Wyman

Trail rocks—wet leaves, talk—
determined footing, no
view yet but a cell tower
at the top, the world as a work of—

This one means transience
like a vagrant—
One day—sans home, sans money (possessions)
freed from this—but

all assets finally seized
with the wind…or this,
it accumulates meanings, borrows—it means
temples of enlightened beings

who speak, write, sign
in what gets termed an ideal language
you can’t rush through, sample
but kind of have to leave it whole.

I made it morning she once said,
the baby bouncing in her crib.
Then a way out. Burnt beyond, the world
just wishes, the mystical mind, a garden—