A finished sculpture
Of an unfinished angel
One wing is entire
The other stops halfway
Allowing him to fly
Only in circles so that
He walks when tasked
With some miracle or,
If it's urgent, runs.
A portmanteau
A finished sculpture
Of an unfinished angel
One wing is entire
The other stops halfway
Allowing him to fly
Only in circles so that
He walks when tasked
With some miracle or,
If it's urgent, runs.
The Portuguese writer Antonio Lobo Antunes
Often dreamed of flying as did my father;
Lobo Antunes flew by himself; my father
With the assistance of angels. Sometimes,
If they were in a hurry, the angels
Would toss my father back into his bed
Through an open window.
This never happened to Lobo Antunes
Who had, however, problems of his own.
Shunsho once drew a samurai glaring
At a young geisha looking back at him
From his mirror. He obviously thinks
He's being poorly served but at least
The geisha has a clever look to her
And is probably good company.
My mirror parades ragged old men
Who seem distressed -- helpless creatures
Who can't even comb their hair properly.
Any of their originals -- surely a sorry lot! --
Are welcome to come fetch them. I'll make do
Until my reflection returns. (I assume he's in jail;
He'd better not be hanging out with geishas.)
I don't know if my grandfather Joe
Frequented all-night diners but since he died
It's where I generally see him in dreams --
Often multiplied so that he's most
Of the customers, quietly chatting
With himself in a booth, waiting
For a seat at the counter, glaring
At the change the cashier is giving him.
The next time we meet I mean to show him
Harunobu's picture of a girl conjuring
A dragon from a cup of tea.
Death, wanting to be loved,
Has learned how to make an omelet
And to do a very creditable
Imitation of a crow though not
At the same time. This, he believes,
Is why his strategy has so far failed.
Formerly, my cat Casey (deceased)
Was responsible for looking from
An upstairs window every morning
To make sure the world was still there.
I never thanked her. Now the job's mine
And nobody thanks me either.
The nobleman has given it
The merest toe-tap but the ball
Has soared into the sky where it hangs
Pretending to be a stitch-seamed moon