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.