when i separate from my hands,

            said the water,

                        whose journey will be done

one grain of rice

                        (for many bowls)

the guest left behind

crossing the river above the trees

                                                            —

                                                                        my flood raised to feather

late in our moon

and no

one

asleep in the barn

through ice works

            on maple buds—

                        —long walk to the sun

many times of being lost

            in place

like a lake between the waters

a child's cup of moonlight was the thread of my returning

something eternal

            worn down

                        to a man who believes he’s sleeping

my flaws drifting from stone to stone—becoming the white sky

waking the mountain to strike a small bell