[tree bark whorled by fissure]

The gradient of wood is slow, and knows

the work before we do. I press my thumbs to each corner,

ready to arrive

at the edge of things: which is to say, as a child

seeking out the trunk

of sweet bristled root

encased in the strange carapace

of a Kyoto carrot’s shell, I began to know 

the world whorled by fissure

as a gradient of memory.