Ghazal iv

 

I compare the Japanese woman to resilience,
or a delicate reed, fading, in the soup’s spiral steam.

The blowing snow is a thousand poems,
scattered into the river.

We are tired of our words, aren’t we, the constant callings,
the beggary all shameful; and archaic summons?

Between your breasts, and my grief, are
bones you’ve hidden, smoothed in laughter.

To sew together an entire forest, this is needed:
a rabbit’s trail softening new snow.

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