THE CLOUDMAKER’S BAG

He shows me the camp stove he cooks with.

Ten-dollar poker chips. Crystals he carries

in small leather pouches, tied to his shoelace,

his belt loops to harness the sun. He carries

a matchbook, a cell phone and charger, a lighter,

an old deck of playing cards with nudes

on the backs of them, needles and balled thread,

thin strips of tinfoil wrapped up in two yellow

Ziploc bags. He carries his own wife’s bones

on a necklace. Fingers them round in the glow

of the shelter lights. Nuggets he dug from

the cremator’s shoebox of ash. He is seven

years homeless now. Living on handouts,

gravedigger jobs he has only been fired from,

free meals down at the church. He carries

a homemade knife in his pocket. Dull gray.

Whetstone for keeping the blade-tip able

to break through aluminum cans. Watermark

stains on the handle from leaving it drawn

in the seaside rain. He carries a King James.

He carries a loose gold tooth on a string. He

carries a phony ID in his wallet. Stranger from

Delaware, barely resembles him. Writes

down the names of the good eucalyptus trees.

Calls them his Darlings, his Leafy-green Loves.

He carries an old pair of foggy binoculars,

out-of-date passport, a penlight for writing his words

on the night sky. Something he picked up in Bozeman,

Montana. The stars are so clear there, they beg

for connections. For someone to map out

their infinite faces. To draw the invisible lines.