Was pleased with the garden, then was sallow, was scrolled down, waited and waited. Was leeched, but not as a plump, but migratory, but a coin spinning them out of me into distant, held places. Have the fires at my tiny intersections, have the wobbling after-strikes. A Prince came and said, we’ve held the vacancy until its edge was shining, and he produced all my sleep from his coat. Was thinking goodness possible, was pleased with the garden. And clopped my way home, buried the old door in the woods; my house made of the dark of closed hands, so slept in the opens, the round hour, sleep so good. Woke, then slept again. Mother and Father. Lights carried by birds. Then cachinnations, the tiny machines, the thousands, the canopies, the night. Ran but was still. Spoke but was spoken to.
© 2008 Ryo Yamaguchi
is an MFA candidate at the University of Minnesota, Twin Cities, where he is also the Assistant Editor for Dislocate. His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Hayden’s Ferry Review, Tin House, The Cincinnati Review, The Notre Dame Review, DIAGRAM, New Delta Review, Natural Bridge, Faultline, The Sycamore Review, and threecandles.
