Asahi Draught


What a strange inversion
of your plans –
to have come so far
in search of language
and to find so little speech

But to find instead an ocean
opened up inside you –
to call that ocean love
and feel a loneliness
to part the sea

To feel this otherness
only as an ache
for the holy
of the returning flight

And you, self-referential to the end,
no urge to shed a van Gogh ear,
no need to force a poem,
resolve to sit,
to nurse a beer in Takayama
and convince your heart
of something small

That this loneliness might yet be
a song pecking out the shell of you –
that this slow returning urge to write
might be held, and fanned to flame

The way a home might be a vessel
cradling, giving voice to quiet

Gate 7


for m & o

How all this paranoid velocity
requires such a weight of waiting,
stacks seven stones in the throat,
finds seven ways of waving goodbye,
seven ways of saying perhaps I’ll stay,
seven ways of turning and going
and stacks so much glass
between there
and there
and there

A mathematics of language
would be needed now
to render how a body,
caught between two planes,
finds itself to be nowhere,
and how nowhere might be anywhere or everywhere
where revelation winks
in the holy of the list,
the blinking of an LCD screen

now departing,
now departing,
now departing,
how I wish that you were here
to still this winking heart’s delay