cloud ear

the brick path worn deep into so a bruise of moss blooms out beneath

the surface of the whole—one day i stood

 

upon a wicker seated chair & fell at once & that same thing took hold

within both shins. a swollen marsh. among the cherry blossom trees

 

at alishan, windows are made in certain trunks & crutches bear

up certain limbs. the boardwalk

 

opens for these bodies as devotional. the cedar forests

blur the light with cedar fragrant mist, from a thousand year

 

old stump mushrooms another, & that second stump in turn buds

with the grandchild tree. roots murmuring through gills. a placard reads:

 

the first sacred tree fell in a storm, whereupon local government

arranged a fair election for another one. we arrive at bleachers

 

semiluned around the newer tree, the vapor rises through us as a chill

or memories of isthmus thin enough that on the road

 

water entered into each eye, we drove a golf cart along the caesura of a long

rhythmic line to somewhere murderers had once unearthed

 

innumerable woman figurines. picture working the earth of the body

open with one hand & stretching in

 

for a shape of clay, of bone, of dark moss in your image. of jelly. for the seam

of loam. under the skin’s a humid place

 

you won’t want to stay long. now out of which

i conjure a long line of mothers, each one sick in her slow way

 

holding her cup of water, going towards bed. how tired she is, she says.

can we not let her rest.