to anyone listening, soft as the grave suiseki assuages a cataract’s grip
smoothing two coals on a callused palm
like a monk might manage ben wa
or baoding, she
shot a svelte snot-rocket
sprig of contortionist wis-
dom to anyone willing
to grip it,
like some grab
gas or the rattle of
latter day saints and
still go stumbling over the
edge of the quay or the fray
or the way suspended in
dust bunnies barbing a
sun beam even—I see
but the Salvator Mundi impressed
on a sun-plucked windshield, puckering,
laying that mudra of safety
scissors on throttling cau-
tion tape tethering toddling
grass blades bulged about all
but expectant and unkempt concrete; see,
where the lips link
soil and sky, where it
reads in flint-flinched rune
stones stuttering, slurred or
unrealized—see,
As above,
so below,
though know
that the mouth
is the molten
navel—
