In the Hold, We Raise Our Voices

In between worlds, I don't remember
anymore which mountain holds my heart,
which meadow. The rain spreads

like a scroll; and tree-shapes seep
through fog, brush-inked as on
a silk banner. I used to know

how many boats were tethered to the dock,
how many times temple bells pealed
at dusk. Distance has become

our mother, which is not the same
as indifference: no, distance
is a vestibule that someone

has soundproofed, and we sit shoulder
to shoulder along its length, mouthing
cries toward rows of high windows.

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