DOMESTIC MYSTICISM / URBAN POST-CONFESSIONALISM

Stray iridescence, vagabond jewel in cement, I have absorbed you
through my foot bones, pain prayers, wandering out here
in the urban gardens, (I’m not tough–)

Only resting now inside a bus, well lit and filling up,
home and homelessness cycles as breath, a string strung through a shared sense.
A string around my wrist broke long ago,

and this was how I became a consumer
of gels, foams, glitter, with nothing to hold onto but a vision:
gold nugget replica in the museum, a cigar box painted black as a piano,
purple feather and netting of a felt hat in a window, ordinary, extraordinary
nimble things without presumed significance, between ownership
(blue-finned fishes teething on my limbs)
and my perception an object
too, a carbonate bubble lined in layers and layers of ether,
everything, everything, and isn’t it how.