to every rule: burning roses
in June, the death rattle
after the cure
your quest for emptiness
trumps nothing, yet you never learned
the intonation of mu
in Old Tokyo
we sojouned.
I was besotted with Osu.
the concept of nothing and kindness.
I take your hand politely
after tending your home site
a grave you share with three greedy wives.
time slips
shoddy and my feet are ruined
but high arched.
No one cares; it matters not—
such a cold and lonely afterthought.
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