Mute Ode

When I saw you coming I walked away

stopping myself from saying your name

then realizing, all this time, that it had been

as it was: me refusing to say a word. I went

on pretending so I could keep this world

from ending. Since I've been forgotten, 

I've often returned to this thought, 

that holding back the truth cannot comfort 

the distraught. Even as you vanished, 

inside me you were wrought. The unsaid

can never be lost; a hand on your chest,

wristbands, a static screen, the path made by

a river drying, proof of burnt homes in a storm,

your favorite book, me one day returning it.

After Dean Young

Continuum

I closed my eyes
to escape today, and I dream
of a hopeful village
claimed by the ocean

I closed my palms
to form a fist, and a sparrow
stretched its wings
for another flight

I closed myself
to all my lovers, and a country
decides to relinquish
its death sentence

I closed my ears
to useless secrets, and a man
longs to speak
with a lost friend

I closed my father’s closet,
and I see his eyes
when I stare in the mirror

I closed my future
to the construction
of a new home, and families
move to different cities daily

I closed the door
to my room, and a starving cat
finds its way
through my window

I closed the curtain
to help the night, and the dawn
breaks in the other
end of the world


After Suimei Kawai

Musings

We might as well be doting on clocks

each time we begin to mind details worthy

of our recollections, no matter how

faulty this faculty tends

to become,

as it withers

with age. Our consciousness

would then only house the essential.

Perhaps we wish to venerate them

by clinging tenaciously to memory,

or even fervently ask, When

will I see you again?  as if looking

forward to everyday

like an oath

never

once

said.

And we know enough that this

will not come: twice around the bend

must have been too much of a plea.

What is enough could leave

these clocks wilting as they hang

to tick consistently out of

necessity and exhaustion; weary faces

with soft arrows reminding me

of your tired

yet yearning

eyes.

The space we had

remains arid and bare.

                         What is enough

                         always leaves

                         something behind

and does not stay.

After Dali

Persistence of Memory (1931)
Salvador Dali

The Dark House of Light

The tree covered the view
To windows on the top floor
As two lower windows opened
To see the silver lake. In broad
Daylight, this flowing mirror
Illuminated the brightness
Of the moon not in attendance.

A desolate dwelling dimly drawn
Notice the interminable dusk
Casted upon its white walls:
Discrete shadows, a singular lamp
Post, tranquil radiance striking
The eye, a strange harmony

Oblivious to the cerulean sky.
The residence enveloped by woods
Long thriving in isolation
Housing unseen creatures beneath
Wide branches, dark limbs, lofty roots
Inching deeper into the earth.


After Magritte