Monday, April 30, 2012

The Long Foam

Trees without leaves
Trees in flower
What is contained between
In the bud
Of imminent coexistence
May be a bubble or not
Thoughts escape their container

It is not always a crime
At least not self-inflicted
When a circle breaks
Into another circle

Many in the pond
Would argue old Bashō was
A secret ninja
So deft in composing
In rhythm with the end
Of all things
And seldom ripping throats

Soft, the hand reaches down
Subtle fingers to pluck
The sewing girl’s needle
From the paralyzed frog

Remember when we lay
On the banks of the river
Two holes in our shirt
From the snares we made
Out of reeds when we rubbed
Grass on our faces to see
What we’d look like older

Much later, the tired village opens
Its reflection in dank loam
Bilious pools and shorn casements
A less than stealthy resignation 

Froth issues from the frog’s mouth
Flecked blades of grass tiny petals
Slowly submerged in the foam
As the white bubbles grow
And alter the direction of the light
In each lenticular orb
So that our scene is myriad

Unsightly the ninja never stops for long
When the globose faces gather
To stare at the mortal hands operant
In the bubble of time a circle feracious

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