557

556
Calamity enough in a paper-twist
Scrap of prayer
Spun to the number of your days.
In this wheel
Be all my sins remembered.

555

554

553

552

551
The cat is dying and it is as absurd
Night birdsong from the dark trees.
His paws have become names, individual.
Cars in the way whisper to each other,
The street become pew in fond solemnity.
They are all one, we know, mute
Then in recognition, as now.

550
(scene from "Bunshinsaba", 2004, dir. Byeong-ki Ahn.)

549
In spring is time into solace
Is winter's autumn
Is 8-mins light's grace a green jot prolonged
Is a time in time braced and held aloft,
And past present
And burst flecks tidy
In diverted gaze
Caught by a spring bird.

548

547

546

545

544

543

542
The firstling of my heart unstay my hand
To blood the invaliant rose;
And in my oversaying eye,
Decarnadine this salt pricklet.
.
Poor soul, two selves in one:
2PM other may note a day moon--
An interior quality sees the sun.

541

540

539

In the pale ward corridor

The white tiles just out of hearing

Whispered, behind footstep or caught word,

Of ghost memory,

Of lost nights coalesced

In one moment, and time become rumor.

.

At the perimeter, in daylit velocity,

The stones are slant spines on the green shelf,

With spare entitlement sufficient.

538

537

In the storm's small aftermath

In the wind-set twigs and branches

Fortune-tossed and telling

As the shaman's ancient bones,

I stood out of the moment

In future's skewed abstract.

What sun-lit crucible depending

From a morning sky?

Midway lost in willed illusion,

Mazed in self-deceit;

Then embered in rheum-eyed clear,

Letting footfall to the unmarked path.

536

535

534

533

532
In her here there's the blue bell
Warm as tears.
In her there there's the gold
As a faint dry tang
Of a strand of, not caught by, but become
A filament of sun.
Yet the moon's-eye blue
Is ours, soft as sleep finger's forgotten
Intertwinement.

531

530

for JS.

There was nothing beneath you, no substance

Nor surface underpinned.

You were

In bound abandon, done--

The evoked completion of another space.

Before I chanced to see

Your imprint in the field was gone.

529
Not the tint blur, but the repose
Of the red bird;
Spacious in brevity--
A pinned retina drop
In one stillness fraught.

528

527

526

525
Exquisite as the moth's fan sweep of air
In all dull planes, shimmering in circumspection's
Lack, did the stone kill New York City's daughter.
In her brief term's anteroom
Was the floor swept, the milk fetched.

524

523

522
After the snow, the disengagement's anatomy was drawn
In the shrouded sun's spackled pall light,
Mapping the air to tree veins
In ghost white.
The season's fleet carapace to a green heart
Was ours too in gray fellowship--
Brittle particular to tendril union,
Cold with faultless age.

521

520

519

518
There is no pot to hold this rose
Nor vase in the still tempest of hours;
Nor's earth undone and remade
Too large a canvas
For such various opacity
And pallid green.
Untheme'd stalk from every beginning,
Frameless stay, uncaught endeavor.

517

516

515
Unsure of this morning
And light turning with a tint drop
In the pool of darker clearness:
An aftertaste of night--
Not to come, but was.
Is this time, backward into day
Folding memory?
Else unraveling
Presents ribbon unrein,
Or the now bird-throated trees' discurling song.

514
Hokusai's wave in its large poise it is
As your many fingers
At my back before the words
Fold down in grave
Exasperation not unmingled with an old thought,
As a salt on the leavings of the beach.

513

512
Your worst may seem defining,
As best is the common chance
Illumination
That outlines with a random start
The alley or no-thru way.
The precision is the minus
Of a puzzle's cut-out blank.

511

510
The beauty of the fallow
Is a shadow back-lit,
A tintinabulation hushed.
In unsure calamity met, or not,
The winter garden austerity
Is coldly meet.

509

508