“O lost, and by the wind grieved, Ghost, come back again.” Thomas Wolfe
These leaves,
they all fall down;
are falling down
with the sound of falling leaves
they fall, silent, to the ground.
And all are falling;
this hand, too, it falls:
it falls upon the page.
upon the word.
upon the stone.
upon the leaf.
upon the door.
It falls;
and having fallen,
falls no more.
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King Wu Wen presented me
with a hundred tortoises.
I fed the flesh to a hundred beggars,
and the shells I used for divination –
cast them into fire and read the cracks
the fire made along their backs.
Nothing furthers, they said. Also,
Every ending is a new beginning.
“Such nonsense!” I spat,
and beheaded the cat.
But what can one expect from empty tortoise shells?
Or old wise men like King Wu Wen?
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Under the surface,
under the slick of oil
spreading over the slick
of conceit;
under the tock
of the me. me. me.
ticks the I. I. I.
that watches, watches, watches
as we die, die, die.
Waits and watches, watches and waits –
this unseen, unwatched, watching Seer.
And we who have no house,
no house at all
(nor do we build one
on this chilly Tuesday
when Winter, crouching on its haunches,
stalks the Fall)
we, too, wait and watch,
watch and wait;
paint our lips with blood,
our eyes with death,
pucker up and hold our breath
in hot anticipation.
But, lacking inspiration,
mistake the mustard seed
between our teeth
for a bit of food
and spit it out lest we offend.
The end.
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Here, in the Valley of Bones,
where the scorpion mocks the turtle
as the turtle dies
and curses the scorpion
for its lies;
where dead men return,
and stones return,
and children’s teeth return;
here, at Elephant’s End,
we play cat’s cradle in the dirt,
where a little dog laughs
to see such sport,
and the wayward dish
returns.
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