#31

I lit a fire with my fingernail,
the flint face of an index point,
the creasing glare of direction,
the compass face twitching
south and north, sending
smoke signals upward, caught in
the parachute canvas of the northern lights--

catching them, reconfiguring them
into hum-songs for hemispheres,
the belly of a meditative om
and morning bell in the shape
of a crescent sun, eclipse.