We didn’t want to visit ruins
stayed with relics in our own domestic landscape.
In the kitchen I was slicing persimmons into petals,
could hear him mumbling, as if over a coffin.
When did I begin feeling phantom pain
for my missing ear, my lungs?
I remember the courtyard of his chest,
ruin’s decay a memory of perfection.
For more information about this mural project, read my blog post Birds, Flowers and Karma: Dreams Do Come True.