On the wall, a poster of the body’s meridians: every point on the palm, on the sole of the foot, a little signal that knowing fingers can decode.
The shoji screen is paper and wood. Or if you like, grain threshed, pulped and pressed into a frame; tensile bamboo coaxed upright from leaning too far out over water.
Face down on the table, I can feel knob by knob how the rungs on my spine lengthen, align.
The spicebush sends up its haze of yellow, the magnolia its tumble of sweet pinks. Underneath the scumble of bark, parts of wood look shiny, as if washed in egg.
Face down, I breathe through the paper towel laid across the headrest and think of how in the water, this might look like a dead man’s float.
Do you notice how one side of every face looks slightly asymmetrical in relation to the other?
I bought a pair of metal earrings from an artisan at a fair: one engraved surface said “un”, the other “usual.”
My hair has grown longer. Mornings are too quickly warm. On the porch, through a haze of hair, I like to listen to things that warble.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
OTHER POSTS IN THE SERIES
- Bel Canto
- In the Summer Capital
- The Hourglass
- Frost has silvered the grass
- Fragment of a Poem Disguised as SPAM
- Clear bulb of coral inside a paper shade,
- Kissing the Wound
- Fire Report
- Dear animal of my deepest need, you want to linger
- Ghazal, a la Cucaracha
- Heartache Ghazal
- Ghazal: Some ways to live
- What heart heard of, ghost guessed:
- A single falling note above
- La Caminata
- Dear nearly weightless day,
- Ghazal of the 1 o’clock caller looking for Pomona
- Breaking the Curse
- Milflores, Milflores
- Bad Script
- Ghazal of the Eternal Return
- Letter to the Underneath
- Tall Ships
- Beneath one layer, another and
- Landscape, with Summer Bonfires
- Dear language, most thick