Wei Tai Ting-I
The neon crucifix draws
in the evening that accumulates like the charge
of sediment that slowly
breaks a dam. Clumps of weeds flash
down the muddy river.
A choir of assembled whispers flows
through the corridors like schoolkids
who end up different, reaching the other side
magnified and distorted,
as if one saw darkly, through
a loudspeaker. The slack-jawed
dog cannot help but drool
when the bells thunder and the gospel
crinkles its third eye
in contemplation. Not a lot
is necessary, but to strain the skin
of the page, untaught
but taut against its hunchbacked
spine, released, then shivering
like the string of a bow.
Now we know. The difference between love
and mania is foldable. An empty pulpit
preaches to the congregation:
pews of hymnbooks spread open
like faces. The grass is ready, the ink
is dead. Cross the door. Open yourself
into half. Kneel down, and kiss the ground.
The evening dew will blur the words,
the paper will rot into the soil, and then
a tree will grow. A bird will alight on its branches. You must go.