It was only a matter of time. Darkness fell, and I saw clearly. Words spoke me, and I listened; the darkness glowed, revealing. If you're quiet they speak to you, but not out loud. Stones stone, and air breathes. You don't learn anything from seeking. Wait, I tell you. Wait.
Heat still thick at noon, but late cicadas gone. Now, emerald air hums. Could you tell, then, that summer was ending when the flowers all still bloomed?
Wasting good sadness, to weep for a lost world you hated anyway. Save your tears for what illuminates and sucks dry the mystery: Being.
Today's last poem - but that isn't really true. They spread, like bamboo. Get thee behind me! I turn and see only the words on the next page.
Myrtle blooms in drifts surround gnarled trunks, and I wonder - next year, too? Sit by the river to watch the fish ripple - but mourn their freedom. A stiffer wind might descend into the valley. Will I notice it?
Some nights I hear the suggestion of voices, but none say anything. Catatonia, not sleep. Held out above the abyss of language.
Writing poetry is embarrassing. You don't think so? You're a fool. There is no one in whom sadness in endemic; tears are too common. Language speaks, not you. Perception, you say, mirrors the world. Idiot.
Words flitter, and fear glides silent beneath a still, limpid pool of light. When sanity hangs by a single shining thread, cut it. Then you'll see.
brittle cataract of grey-brown leaves twigs branches sighing; a cold wind