Part III, continued.

Better?



Takaaki

Part III




This morning I awoke to light—a shade
Of pale peach without parallel. A new one.
I lay there looking at the shadows made
By an oak tree on my imagination:
Leaves danced on window blinds, my mind—a fan
Hiding a kabuki player, a young man,
Performing for his Shōgun, on a stage,
Not built of oak, but darker wood. The image—
Flirtatious as it was—as all Art is—
Seemed so substantial! No telephones
Rang, no sirens screamed, no thumps, no groans
Excited curiosity, no his-
Sing radiator ventilated steam;
Nothing—not a whisper—intervened

To disturb the universe today.
I watched my lithe, indefatigable Muse,
The light, continue coloring the day
With views from calendars: volcanic blues,
Foamy grays, pine boats, stone tsunami,
The tight red lips of geishas, tan tatami,
Black boughs suspended in such seas of pink
It made a falling cherry blossom think:
“The law of gravity does not exist;
This floating world is Heaven; you, my friends,
Bear no relation to the inky hands
Of human artisans.” We may dismiss
The final thoughts of photons as they flutter
Down. But they’re beautiful. Why bother?