Garden is a broken circle, a portal opening onto an illusion
of tranquility in the
heart of the city. I listen for the fragrance of hibiscus,
banana trees, bamboo, the Goddess Herself dibbled by rain fallen
into the backflow
culture from another dimension.
Rounded posts covered
with flowerly calligraphy—wild grass on a windy day—are
with investment capital.
am I waiting for?
A change in customs that
will take 1000 years to come about?
Who will change if I don't?
I circle the banks of
a leaky pond, surrounded by roofs with canted prows of sinking ships.
By city ordinance, windows leak too. Skyscrapers stare over the
walls, wondering what century this is. A car alarm warns of a Muslin
Too late for serenity,
in the Scholar's Room rosewood chairs and tables polished to
sheen of inquisitive minds are turned
into the place.
Whatever events happened at the place, whatever sequence they
whatever intervals existed between them, all becomes subordinate
to their gambling everything on the courtyard's
blossoms on ice crystals," even an
in harmonic opposition:
patiently smiling guide.
Sasquatch waits in afternoon's gauzy
shadows, not moving this way or that.