We Must Have The Stubbornness To Accept

We Are Resident Inside With The Machinery, A Glimmering Spread Throughout The Apparatus. We Exist With A Wind Whispering Inside And Our Moon Flexing. Amid The Ducts, Inside The Basilica Of Bones. The Flesh Is A Neighborhood, But Not The Life.

We Must Unlearn The Constellations To See The Stars.

You Will Love Again, People Say. Give It Time. Me With Time Running Out. Day After Day Of The Everyday. What They Call Real Life, Made Of Eighth-inch Gauge. Newness Strutting Around As If It Were Significant. Irony, Neatness And Rhyme Pretending To Be Poetry. I Want To Go Back To That Time After Michiko's Death When I Cried Every Day Among The Trees. To The Real. To The Magnitude Of Pain, Of Being That Much Alive.

To Hear The Faint Sound Of Oars In The Silence As A Rowboat Comes Slowly Out And Then Goes Back Is Truly Worth All The Years Of Sorrow That Are To Come.

How Astonishing It Is That Language Can Almost Mean, And Frightening That It Does Not Quite.