(becoming)
the needle draws a thickening air, for her, out of the spiraling record, a gesture, for her, pressing her eyes closed. and in jaw jittering whirls letters erase, dissolve Tibetan books of the Dead. the couch, the page, finalities of all she once touched, are already liquid and through her. folding out of time, the room blossoms, swells, gazes feline iris gold. tomorrow’s dreams arrive. and this is how cats birth idylls (the plants have always known this) wood breathes. light curls inside, carves cobalt, carves purple, brings nausea, the fast pulse of green– brings the green of a kite, dipping into a river, crawls through kalis, the dark of Jakarta. the stone lions leave the Dawn Temple’s gates, to lick dew off its porcelain floors, the gray hand of a buddha presses close to the walls down steps of the Borobudur, and cockatoos wipe across a perspiring surface of the Golden Tower in Bangkok. the sky fills with large wings of frogs flapping shadows through gardens, blue-eyed orchids and dew– sleep escapes, wood breathes (unfolds, blossoms, and grows swollen), evaporates into insomnia there is a song out there
