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39 Kalihiwai I’m among the ochre-green and dying leaves, sitting amid the fecundity. I tend to forget who I used to be, fold on like water fizzing through rock that once was molten. There’s a sponge sound on the beach echoing in my inner ear and black glands of stone and black glands like sand on the backs of these veined, surrounding leaves. Prehistoric, ferning, we are all afloat in a deep and foaming sea of space tided by rolling fire. And there is a way of listening to the even fall of water from a faucet or body-breath of waves, the swell and recession of a truck going by, or now the baby practicing her o, ee, oo. She’s clamoring up into language and may always be, like me. A purple pod hangs like ballast from the banana’s knotted stalk, its fruit soft and polyfronded as a mum cupped up. So the bruised bell tolls the cord 40 of its purpose, a sweetening corpus of seed. Then a panic in the windbreak and chickens scattering dumb rust and iridescence. Of weight and wing, this offspringing world is more than we can imagine. ...

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