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.