A drowsy thought, how the name sounds like a plucked string, Kyoto– I’ve never been, but have read some Basho– his sad bird calling, air that cracks. Another one of these! Too tired to rest, this less a dream of a place and more a dream of dreaming, of foreign concepts– laquered maples, bamboo groves, and sleeping
A closed door with a cart outside, coffee service with paper cups, three small apples in a plastic bowl with plastic wrap across the top— a bereavement tray, nothing more to be done. This is the work. Sometimes I get a small, ripe grief lodged in the back of my throat, taut as a grape skin. And what for? I only know that you were. I can’t say any more.
This is some sort of state change, not sure exactly— am I a vacuum, or do I feel entropy? Sloughing away on a molecular level. Or do I feel spacious, expansive, empty? There’s no panacea for converting to vapor– when the night cools off I’ll just collect on the walls.
I got on the wrong bridge and had to leave town. True story, and more to read there than these dreams– deep water, still water, such a dumb expanse today, a blue stilled tongue, but for what cause? There’s the unease, as cars spill like beads across these spans– to regret is to be on the wrong side of something. Even sleeping now I am chasing it– What? I don’t know. Only that I’ve missed […]
Sun giving way to gray heat, stagnant, a bird singing out the same insistent song. I said my same greetings and goodbyes as everday, in my usual way, but only just now noticing the sameness– how else to say it? The air is too thin today for a thing to be beautiful.
OPTIONAL POETRY 