The Causeway, Remembered
Some thresholds are not crossed once.
They are carried.
Causeway
The road narrows.
Then the light.
Water on either side
holds the sky.
The body slows
without instruction.
Stone does not open.
It waits.
Your shoulders lower.
You did not tell them to.
Inside, distance lengthens.
Breath slows.
Figures in shadow,
mid-gesture,
balance undecided.
Movement has not happened—
and yet the air knows.
You step back.
Out of courtesy.
Rain arrives.
Leaves.
You carry away
a change in weight.
What Remains of the Causeway
Not the stone.
Not the water.
The slowing.
The way the body
learned to wait
without being told.
Light resting
where it fell.
Time
unshouldered.
You stood.
That was enough.
Now—
elsewhere—
rooms move too quickly.
Yet sometimes
your foot hesitates.
Your breath
does not follow at once.
The causeway exists.
You know this.
What is gone
is the measure
that held you
and let you remain.
Also in Library
Stone That Remembers the Sky
This poem listens to Angkor not as ruin, but as grammar—where moss, shadow, and proportion carry devotion forward without spectacle. What endures here is not glory, but measure: a way of standing that no longer needs witnesses.
Rice-Ghost and the Seven Drums
At harvest, the danger is not hunger but forgetting how to listen.
This folklore retelling speaks of drums struck for silence, of grain taken without gratitude, and of a narrow figure who does not punish—only waits. A tale of pacts made not with spirits, but with attention itself.
Naga Vow
A lost city sleeps in the jungle, its thresholds carved with serpents — not ornament, but law. This vow-poem enters love as sacred hunger: desire as guardianship, devotion as possession, the body speaking without language. A liturgy of heat, roots, rain, and the terrible tenderness of being claimed.
