for Eiko
I've spent this morning watching television
And watching the snow fall past the window
And accumulate on the wet street
And on the roofs, hoods, and trunks of firemen's cars
Parked in front of the bicycle shop.
Already the firemen have gone out twice
Since I sat down in this canvas chair,
But both times were only false alarms.
Now a stout girl wearing a plastic bag
On her head walks carefully past, hugging
a book or package inside her pink ski jacket.
Snow falls like lint shaken from a lint trap.
Lucy and Ethel suspect each other
Of being the neighborhood cat burglar,
But now Lucy's wrestling with the real
Burglar, thinking it's only Ethel. Yikes!
Softly as mosquitoes the snowflakes fall.
My eyes will shrivel to dust, but Hayama,
And the harsh-voiced tobi flying above the steep ridges
there,
Will outlast the emperor's compound there,
And lovers will always gather shells there,
Whenever the sea there is still or in motion,
Even in the middle of the winter.
Psychologically unkemp extremely
Just now, with
Half my wits
Jeering at the
Other half, the
Mizzle balanced out
By the lithograph
Of Shakespeare in
A lace collar,
Slightly elevating his
Eyebrows and pursing
His thin ripe
Lips, as if
To draw back
From any too
Tentative sentences -- which
Is to say,
From nearly all
Of them -- staring
At me from
The white plaster
Wall. He almost
Seems to wince
With sympathy when
I stop writing
And look up
At him. "Don't
Stop on my
Account," he seems
To say, anything
But afraid yet
Willing to be
My friend. He
Looks out with
An all-sufficient
Certainty that he
Will never be
Invisible. Accorded the
Sweet honor of
Being ignored most
Of the time,
He is the
Friend of everybody
Who speaks ever
From the heart.
Copyright (C) 1995 The Silence: A Literary Journal
and the author. All rights reserved.