I will take you to the grave of the storm | You can stay at my house, there’s room

A green caterpillar chomping on the edge of a leaf | A child’s eye looms, this has no shell | grown round it yet

Silent type | unprotected | Using a road with fire to get away

Weigh the mountain in our embrace, what weight will we bring, what balance attain?

Oh, Mother of Pearl

Another girl

slips off into a new song, linking echoes into a glistening string | we walked over the ridge, below us | lay the storm’s grave | only a few dried leaves | scratching and scuffing over the stones | a hoard | of vanished lightnings


At ankle height, there is also a world | boulders of sugar | black | samurai of ants | planets of thistledowns | what will our gaze | do to the snail?

Peace in a teaspoon

a tiny

portion for the brothers with oceans inside them, sisters | who have swallowed the moon | and are still | hungry

Daughter in the mist | a lap and drip | unseen | and on soft breath | half heard, half dreamed | the return | of elderberries in cooling September | fragments of dogwood floating in water | across | the lake can the small | voices come, even now | and save us with the exemplary | scale of their whispers?

Remembering the mountain and my daughter

of lost bones and fatal | decisions

where will we go, and what shall we do?

when the roaring voices rise inane, where | will they take us, where | will they go?

when the landlord calls for his rooms

even in Shibuya, among the flowers

what will be done | with the half of the dream | left behind

when the seas come for our cities?


from the series hypergrammar (open-ended, 2012–present)
(this poem, August 2014)