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17 tHe tUrnIng sky They retire into that form and rise up from that form. —Chandogya Upanishad The cloud grows in the cat’s belly while he sleeps. One gray bird dives down into the cold wave for a fish. In another country, I am reading about the wooden fish, red and yellow, tied to each end of a cord stretched over the belly of a dead Zen master on his way to fire.The cat twitches its paw and has given over its sight—monks begin chanting and the bird lets drop the fish inside the cypress tree, ants eating the dry eyes in minutes. A young monk sleeps with his back along the cedar while a spider crawls over his hand— The unknown painter has made a last brush stroke before noon.They’ve picked out the hot pieces of bone with bone.Thousands of miniature bells ring out in hands around a field. They are a river circling, shadow’s breath given leave to cut deep into an undying middle. With a click, the cat’s jaw unlocks. Streaks of azure and pearl have run through the ashes.The clap of hands: two fish with open mouths waken with a start at the fact the last brush stroke swallowed the cat. ...

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