He has just paddled the banca out of Postan Gamay,
where the branches of the mangrove arch above the water
a temple of dark green silence.
In his heart he keeps the oars quiet.
Delivered back to the light and sound of the world, he sees,
hears, wild emerald doves and orioles stir the river,
dipping their wings for a bath and sunning on a wire
strung across the breadth of Abatan.
It will soon be sunset.
He catches his breath at the shimmer of wings when the birds
shake droplets loose from their feathers. A light breeze passes
through the nipa fronds on the riverbank; fetches faint sounds
of a church bell calling the faithful to prayer.
It is time to come home.
As the sun slips behind Maribojoc mountains, he comes
to Bitoon, the deeper part of the river; stops for a chance
to hear the bell thrown long ago by the people of Malabago
to defy anger of shamans, priests, and greed of marauders.
No one owns the bell but the river.
His friend, the wise healer of Toril, tells him the story
one starless night when he heard Lingganay Ugis
ringing. The young men in the river towns also heard it.
Many dived in to see for themselves the marvel.
The temple bell lies still on the riverbed.
At the mouth of Abatan children are hook-and-line fishing.
He calls to ask them if they were trying to catch Cogtong,
giant fish guarding the bell. They laugh and tell him: No, but
we’ve seen him flash huge red eyes, whip his very strong tail.
The old bell-keeper is alive and well.
Kunstkammer
The field has eyes, the woods have ears,
I will see, be silent, and hear.
Flemish proverb
I
And what spoor have you followed
when you went hunting in the night?
this Kunstkammer’s relics of the wild
reassemble your eye’s blue pursuit
of the gazelle’s femur. Here, a bone
splinter resumes her flight in air.
The shaft you let loose lodged into her
left shoulder blade. The bright ribbon
of her blood seeped into black, wet leaves.
Where she fell, your breath hot on her nape
you found feathers. A storm had thundered
through the trees. And you, innocenced
into wonder, gathered bounty of flesh, bones,
quill by shining quill, home.
II
There’s no figuring this wilderness
in us, lost in the summer thunderstorm
in the red eyes of a great she-wolf.
Earless woods, no one listens to old proverbs anymore.
Neither does anyone believe in the gravity of tales
once told at bedtime before dream to children.
Time slides past perfect when a dog
crashes head-on to a van’s cold muzzle.
We stand silent under a black umbrella,
knuckle-white freezing, watching it:
a no-sequence, seemingly inconsequential
road kill on a highway entering Bogotá.
Crossed earth, tierra cruzada, eyeless fields.
There are no crosses for any dead here.
III
You’ve seen Hieronymus after flying away from
their hell and their heaven into his garden
de las delicias. With what eyes and ears of wonder!
No, not still lives but rondels of joy, round
songs on open mouths, all orifices
taking to delight, without sign of slack or slander.
In Bosch’s middleway, figures dance, con-
figuring the great spiral of the seasons.
Everything tastes with tongues of flame:
flamingoes, fire salamanders, blood corals,
beasts, birds, men, women, restore themselves
unto themselves as they go round the waters.
In this garden, strawberries have ripened.
Berry by one red berry picked, partaken.
