Lash everything irredeemable to the ficus
with muscle. Use the flexor digitorum brevis
from the arch of my right foot.
This is how what’s grounded gets hitched
to the rooted, everything cramped
into place and contemplative. Tight
striations might as well be bindings
to Bodhi as body. Why not dump this tired mind
at the foot of a tree, aerial roots
less caustic than an unanswered calling —
or perhaps this is it, to sit, to ponder, to ask:
what violated cunt, what unhappy gasp,
what sad spat, and toppling building
left us blooming untoward?
Who puts flowers on the inside of a fig
except the injured or the bereft?
The ones who hankered hard
and failed to do anything but live
lush and fallible? What regret is: bark
or bitch. The world succumbs to beauty
even now, in the throes. The sky is dark
and hidden behind branches, cephalic
veins clotted with grief. Hush now,
finally. All the face can do is flush, sympathetic
nervous system, visible horror of wounded
and wounding. All inflorescence remains safe
inside that place the mind opens up pear-shaped
and vast: the body of every lover is unattached
to hurt or hope, falls in its own field of daffodils,
to curl fetal with singular prowess or glut.
Picture found here.