The last pages of this book are full of sand--
enough to bloody my fingers.
My pockets are filled with sugar I pretend is stars.
When I touch my fingers to them, they stick to the blood and turn pink
like cherry blossoms in haiku.
I put the tip of my tongue to the sand and stars
to taste earth and heaven together, but it's no good--
grit in my mouth makes me grind my teeth until I spit red.
Having combined dirt and deity, I carry the experience
but produce no pearl.
I am not sure if this is pastiche, Kerry, but it is my attempt at it.