"That
which cannot be perceived by the eye,
but by which the eye
is perceived."
-Kena
Upanishad
Each moment
is a memory, an old bronze bell
with a belt of esoteric glyphs wrapped around
its big green belly.
Wooden steps
wet with fog embracing trees;
a
woman's hunched over, as if fallen asleep.
Cushions
have been modeled
into
vaginas with ears;
the Great Goddess herself is listening
to
the silence
in a temple that's survived Buddhism,
Judaism,
Christianity, Islam, and
last year's
fire,
with only
a slight musty
smell
lingering.
The woman
rises with
what
did she see?
Flowers, icons,
the portrait of a
saint
hidden behind a woven screen?
Everything's
hidden,
one
way or another.