From the Book of Broken Odes Your sadness flutes through dowel holes cut by woodpeckers in flaking sycamores. They flutter bark and call the maple’s sons, the ones as well with sap and weep. And on their tears the mayfly’s tripwire legs alight to sup, its wings still – (flimsy fanatic, hardened heretic) – And…
Along the smooth path powdered with dust, Beneath the bluish shadows of the evergreen. Where is the thing that I lost? Toppled crags and boulders grow in clusters, guard the way. Clamber over, run away, Each tread sprays yellow moss. How many ants have marched this day? Spears of light pierce the woods The stones…