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67 Nest i What if I build a nest from the stillness between breath held and breath released? What if I build my nest with the fevered breeze of a paper fan? Or titian strands from a floating sunset. What if I can’t feel my heart but feel the strands knitting around it? Is wilting a surrender to earth’s nest— or generosity? What if I build my nest from the fiber of a flower that has lost suppleness but retains the tensile strength of its beauty? ii If the Floating World, Ukiyo, is a nest, then the rocks and streams embroidered on the robes of lovers is not a nest, but when they follow the curves of their bodies—those curves are a nest. The transient joy of cherry blossoms 68 is not a nest. But the moment of savoring the evanescence of those blossoms is a nest. And so it is for lips that make wind chimes of words. A girl viewing plum branches at night, her lantern held against the negative space, is not a nest. But negative space, the plush black nothingness that holds want— that want is a nest. iii A highway is a bird, come, go. A staircase, a bird, ascend, descend. Yes, the word, a wing. Reluctant, he pushed her out of the nest. Playful, he jostled her into the nest. Who’s to say what works? Ruin wants to be a nest. The way it asks, Are you in? A crumpled brown bag is not a nest, though it resembles a nest, and, once, could have been one. ...

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