the waves are the practice of the ocean for my son Ari; Greyston: sesshin 5182 here, happy outside of pursuits 1 see you lift up your red canoe, you in this still are lifting up your red canoe your powerful canoe companion of the Temagami Wilderness assists, bears the four sacks, 2personals, 1 heavy, onesemi-heavy-- your companion Mark is giving you help I have wanted to give you this poem for 13 years, since you were 5, and now, free now of my terror for your life I can make and offer the fluid confirming of this verse; the pain in my knees and lower thighs and ankles remembers you in your antic fortress, your attic closet bed-room years, you and Girl as if by the wardening moat you invented made anxiously safe up high and deep in and my heart bearing you as if, in a high-pulse of endlessly heavy white, two floors of Atlantic separated you from me myself never so alone as with you high in the fort controlling your floating push-button eyrie. here outside of pursuits at Greyston sesshin, this sleeping-bag cellar, my knees and thighs have woken me at 2:25 a.m., or the sweetness of my stereopticon of you woke me, is simple, and casts no shadow, it casts no light either. it is in my mind like my mind. like my body where on my back in two places equidistant from my spine between my neck and shoulder the pain of Shoro s keisaku-blows also maps like the sculpture inside Rodin s stone the curve of his finger s stratigraphy where he barely positioned me before he bowed to my bow after the blows, whoever asks. whoever gives, one. you. you d given yourself a cuneiform of cuts on your forearms last June swellings of the finger-joints from chops at the freezer door, part of your rite, myself in despair seeing challenge and a fall into your desecration of skin and cartilage and on your left biceps
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