harbin jane the sunlight, pouring golden through the leaf-hands of the fig tree, the way light turns pink through skin. the way skin turns pink through the steam rising from the water. this medicine is ancient. i stick my foot, close to the crags, the arsenic cures. before this, it was poison. i'm ambivalent to the science behind it all; knowing it feels good is simply enough. challenging the body in extremes: blistering hot so i can't move without feeling flames in my arteries - running, naked up the stone steps, covering my breasts with shame, feeling my wet hair cling to the sides of my face, flushed with remedy. the cold is shocking at first, like stepping from a fever into an icebox. the body slowly appreciates. somehow everything just levels out. perspective changes - i'm balmy, no longer chilled. my bones creaking underneath the paper of my skin. the moment i'm comfortable, i exit to begin the cycle again. somewhere between hot and cold is panacea. and everyone sees this, and everyone is waiting for their reconciliation with water, and fig leaves, and arsenic, and skin. 111104 ... Ouroboros and the bliss. the spinning bliss of the bodysoul in the hot to cold to hot and on and i look up at the sky beyond the fig leaves and laugh at the stars out there and hit the wind-chime just so before holding the metal (so beautifully crafted animal friends) and lower my body gently again into the water and let the hot stream beat against my beating heart 111105 ... ergo There, Guanyin sits, the source of compassion. I lie before her, a steamed offering. Let it rain down. 111105 what's it to you? who go blather from