Approaching the Zoo Station

Ever as complete
in it's compacted echo--
beauty's subtle reply.

We do not die
each day we sleep;
we tell the grass our song.
We lift a stone
from a place
and put it into place.

No time for this;
time because of this.

Across from me,
a man's black shoe,
sewn in 10,000 mirrors,
has now
become his shadow. It fits
and with it all the mouthes
that chewed the years
of somewhere's grass
are here with him
grazing
the silent valley
between these Osaka subway benches.

To his right,
a woman in eight shades of blue
has a butterfly of steel
on her ear. It must be
a prayer for confidence, as is
my own copper circle of the universe.

I can almost hear you, voice
at my ear. The question in my mind
as ever, "Are you here?"



by jerry gordon