Until strain the salted year? Freshly
drawn in smoke, blown by wind to who
knows where. Their distant retreat, nights
of twisted roots, the doors all closed, the
hours run aground, gone lame and lost in
soft penitence. Not today. Not by a cemetery
or under the shadows of buddha’s walled
city. No sorrow in becoming forgetful,
no matter what. Call up the dreams of
polished stones and bubbles frozen in time.
At the end of the world a blind dog climbs
ten rugged hills and jumps into the sun. Lost
and found. Never was, or will be. Because
her howl, a prayer? Or good good night
at long long last. Between the sweaty
hallucinations of lambent children,
whatever were their precious names.
Gone headlong into mist while we
speak with the voice of birds.
