untitled cento, paper maché 

by Thea Monje 
  
this being human is a guest house 
  
in early winter, 
  
unknowing—knowing less than 
  
you, you know your way, you know 
  
someone has slipped into the next room, 
  
dirty coinage, ancient maledictions, priceless obscurities, 
  
casting out stones and conjurations into the laugh lines of 
  
mind, cresc—  —endo