It’s October and I have not
written a word in two weeks,
other than imitations of Bashō,
each yellowed page
a drawing of an insect, a centipede perhaps,
a small blackbird.
Nevertheless, I’m beginning to
understand his kinds of silences,
like the black steadfastness of roots
undisturbed in their underworld.
That is how
I sit on the old sofa listening to
the sound of rain in the yellow trees,
the way I hear,
as they sway knots of silence,
their coldness that tightens
It seems intentional,
lines that scrape
borders of emptiness,
like angles of rain that soften
into streams from rooftops.
I don’t want to shut my eyes
and tease out words, only
to see how they fall out
into scraps that,
when I dot my pen against them,
circle around other lives the way
raindrops tap on water
to explain in brief rings
their already dying planets.
I let them stick to darkness, instead.
the leaves are pretty,
the way they rot, turning to glue.
Here, like small hands,
not even they hold on.