Kyoto Fedora

 

—for Diane Wiener

 

 

Rain, winter, me a tourist

Blind, tapping with cane—

Thinking “one must practice reality”

Sweeping stick in curves,

A series of arcs, as blindness 

Is like rings on water—

 

Thinking honey on tongue,

Leafage in cemetery, 

Undecipherable voice

Reaching cold ears

 

Behind closed eyes

Wishing for hat.

She appeared—

Glittering lightly

 

Hat seller but not,

Waving me into shop,

not—simple

One rare angel. 

 

 

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