poetic fragments op. 44

Paris, Tokyo

For a long, long time

The faces I can’t see,
The screams I can’t hear,

The wind I can’t feel.

I’m seeing but I can’t,
I’m hearing but I can’t,
I’m feeling but I can’t.

I have no eyes,

No ears,

No skin.

―I’m a tiny stone.

The new moon

In the deep November

Is a jet-black void.

Now an invisible hawk

falling toward it.

The tiny stone:

A dry tongue.