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72 August From underneath a bridge, I can see a path to the temple on Kusuri Mountain. The bridge has formed in the angle of a shoulder and an arm; I am watching from my bed after sex. The temple is half-curtained by greenery. It floats alone in cloudish space, built upon the colorless contingency of water. And the shade blooms with white wisteria’s discontinuous cascade, mirroring everything that grows low and electric at the mouth of the bluest river. A pilgrim’s rucksack glows like a pearl. I see him close and far away. I would like to follow, my feet toiling on the steep road up Kusuri Mountain. ...

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