Forthcoming from Singing Horse Press
for yang wan-li (1127-1206)
I’ve tended this patch of dirt
for thirty years : herded ants ∙ pollinated
flowers ∙ seeded clouds
lying on my back the magnetic field
hums through my spine ; horsetail
cirrus are embedded in my irises
and though the tree’s shadow is freezing
my left arm ∙ the sun
is burning my right
this spring’s pollen fog
is growing in my armpits ∙
yeasts are blossoming in my bowels
but I’m confused who this is ∙
how he is merely this same dirt
I plant with leeks
in answer I light the juniper wood
fire ∙ freeing the milky way
to finally bloom
Natural Law
because the stone house
moves ∙ we worship ground
or wind blowing through bare trees
is unopposed ∙ imperialist ∙ with no
intent
then it is indifference ∙ not
failure ∙ that casts
any life : white blossoms
on the black branch
are frozen rain
or the cicada is encased in clear ice
or the voluptuous
spring storm : blue mountains
obscured by the dust
of a million human bodies
or being no one ∙ not two
I find myself vegetal ∙ dead wood
forgive my non differentiation
the sun caused this
or embers fading ∙ disassembled dream :
wild quail eating cooked
rice ; flicker digging ants ;
larva burrowing tongue :
to cause the least suffering
we strive ∙ starve
no worship ∙ all worship
or one petal veers violet