Poetry By
Bethany Powell
Published on: 6/28/2012
Kami
There is something dark back there. It's the most hidden shrine, on a neat square of land All filled up with holy stones and walks for tourists, Where the bellrope is grimy but never too old And all the gardens are open-faced. This is not like that. Back in the wood that rambles a little wild Where there's a shortcut to the smaller bridge, Just a footworn path and a crowding of trees-- Maybe it is the most ancient. Maybe it is the most fresh, a newly built throne; You can nearly hear the slow breath of it Where at other steps to the screened tabernacles The only breath is your own, your neighbor's, the _bouzus_. It is for sure the smallest. So you see how close you can walk by without hearing it, You think of asking a classmate if they know why it is there, And you wonder just who goes to offer those fresh sugarcakes At the shrine arms-length deep and wide, on a little rise of land The most secret place, and the prettiest, and most dread.
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