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O t h e r s You ask me what the lobster is weaving down there with its golden feet. I tell you, the ocean knows this. You say, who is the ascidia waiting for in its transparent bell? I tell you, its waiting for time, like you. You say, who does the macrocystis alga hug in its arms? Study it. Study it at a certain hour in a certain sea I know. You question me about the wicked tusk of the narwhal and I respond by describing how the sea unicorn, with a harpoon in it, dies. You inquire about the king fisher's feathers which tremble in the pure spring of the southern shores. I want to tell you that the ocean know this, that life, in its jewel boxes, is endless as the sand, impossible to count, pure, and the time among the blood color grape has made the petal hard and shiny, filled the jelly fish with light, untied its knot letting its threads fall from a horn of plenty made of infinite mother-of-pearl. I'm nothing but the empty net which has gone on ahead of human eyes, dead in those darknesses, of fingers accustomed to the triangle, longitudes on the timid globe of an orange. I walked around like you, investigating the endless star, and in my net, during the night, I woke up naked, the only thing caught, a fish, trapped inside the wind. Pablo Neruda Los Enigmas Nothing whatsoever wrapping the rice cakes, with one hand she fingers back her hair the dragonfly can't quite land on that blade of grass a field of cotton as if the moon had flowered Matsuo Basho (1644-1694) a shortcut: up to my knees in summer rain the old man cutting barley- bent like a sickle Yosa Buson (1716-1783) don't worry, spiders, i keep house casually the man pulling radishes pointed my way with a radish don't know about the people, but all of the scarecrows are crooked even with insects- some can sing, some can't from the end of the nose of the Buddha on the moor hang icicles that wren- looking here, looking there. you lose something? zealous flea, you're about to be a Buddha by my hand writing shit about new snow for the rich is not art her row veering off, the peasant woman plants toward her crying child Kobayashi Issa (1763-1827) back to the top |