One by one I took an assortment of items
out of the depths for cleaning and winding.

One lung lay asleep; the other traced
feeble circles on a cold saucer.

I rubbed the tip of a raku-fired stone and its face
bloomed like a small moon behind a mountain.

In the closer distance, animals scoured
the lunar landscape for anything sweet.

Given their recent misfortunes,
how could anyone begrudge them?

On the lake, ripples moved
with the slightness of eyelashes.

My heart was a disc of thin bone, a brittle wafer.
Who will help me translate these messages?


In response to Via Negativa: Collection.

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