to climb a high sycamore,
the sky lights behind the rain sky,
the distance appears like painted glass.
The arms of the river
encircle the spiraling mountain,
you lift the temple city
of our first birth in the true king.
I gauze my eyes with linen,
we dip our hems in the water round,
we wash in the ointment of ashes,
we wash in the purified air.
the sky lights behind the rain sky,
the distance appears like painted glass.
The arms of the river
encircle the spiraling mountain,
you lift the temple city
of our first birth in the true king.
I gauze my eyes with linen,
we dip our hems in the water round,
we wash in the ointment of ashes,
we wash in the purified air.
John Swain lives in Le Perreux-sur-Marne, France. His most recent chapbook, The Daymark, was published by Origami Poems Project.
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