Metaxyturn Diaries

By walking I ar-

rive sometimes at the place where

my mind loosens up.

I see the breeze push

a duck along, its dark foot

still as a rudder

in the clear water.

The breeze moves through my mind push-

ing me rudderless.

Limber lilac and

top heavy apple blossoms

lead me by the nose—

virtue is passive—

walking is a pointless art,

I forget shopping

and dreaming I’m a

painter, read Buson’s renga

Peony Fallen.

Overnight the tips

of twigs gained weight and color.

Whole trees hum on my

way to the cove. I

reach the water, which glitters.

The world’s meaning, so

clear in winter, con-

fused now by the sense of things,

bursts with distinctions.

Tiny drops of rain,

more like a breathing of rain,

from a cloudless sky.

At low tide the light

bends in the water, I bend

over to see it,

the enigma of

eternity, its showing

as it passes through.

No necessity

as ducks outshine emerald

in the spring sun. No

necessity when

“guilty, your Honor” concludes

a bad cop’s trial.

No necessity

unites the community.

The Good gives off sparks

sparkling in the tears

that keep on falling, falling,

lacrimae rerum.

A life spent dreaming

of what makes a poem good

is an empty life,

but then on a walk

you see one of the great swans

headless in the cove.

You panic. The sun

shines. The long neck and brute beak

roots in the darkness.

A dialectical

fool, the manyness of things

gets me. The lingua

franca of ducks calls

me to the cove. They bob and

flash. The too-muchness,

such as it is, hints

at being’s ultimate. Yes,

I am that simple.

The cove around the

bend, I hear a thrashing, boi-

ling noise, so I stop.

It goes on; I go

on. Two swans, one on the bank,

one in the water.

I see a poem

becoming, churning, and a

clean calm one watching.

I follow Basho and

leave the changes behind, walk

in the rain, my um-

brella overhead.

The rain turns to hail and drums

on my umbrella.

I live out my years,

forget my years, stay carefree,

let go like Du Fu.

Going back to my

warm room, shining books, cheerful

disorder, I pause

by the dark cold cove.

A few ducks animate the

chiaroscuro

and draw me in. What

light there is dances in their

wakes under the pier.