I sit in a patch of shade cast by a pipal tree.
Each morning I read a few lines from The Narrow Road to the Deep North.
Where did Basho go?
He entered a cloud, and came out the other side:
Everything is broken and numinous.
Tiled roofs, outcrops of stone, flesh torn from molluscs.
Far away, a flottila of boats. A child sucking stones.
There is a forked path to this moment.
Trees have no elsewhere.
Leaves very green.
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