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Yoko Danno -II

from Aquamarine
 

 

 

 

stone steps echo

 

in the woods in the moonlight

birds huddle against the wind –

the footsteps receding,

a woman hides herself

inside a shrine

from her gossiping neighbors –

 

dimly lighted,

bats chattering with radar,

from brain to brain,

fluttering

in search for a vent

in an invisible crystal dome,

eyes closed tight

as rosebuds –

 

through the open window

a wind blows

the grasshoppers hum

off her heart

to the stone altar –

 

dew-lit leaves leading her dance,

soaked in silver light

her steps draw an open circle,

pigeons fed by seeds of music –

 

she rests like a stick of celery

in tomato juice – a monkey-god is born

when the wind blows her cover –

 

finally from the sea of her womb

 

 

 

river song

 

sing it to frogs

        croaking in the paddy

 

like a piece of soft wet silk

she presses her belly

onto a boulder in the river,

feeling the dull throb

 

of the molten core

erupted

cooled, veined

saturated

with moisture alive –

 

a woman, bathing,

freed from rice-planting,

swims underwater

 

to a man standing alone

under a waterfall,

immersed in the sound

of water rushing over rocks –

 

as if wakened from a summer

night’s ecstatic dream,

a chorus of ripples shimmer

from the cobbles on the riverbed –

 

in the sunlight

before spawning

salmon are frantic

 

 

 

road home, a mystery

 

this side up! – glass

is in the box,

a long journey

                is destined –

 

when we look up

while rotating

fixed in a ferris wheel,

an expanse of empty blue –

 

you like diving,

i prefer

spacewalking – you love

the tropical sea, i yearn

for snow peaks –

 

the same old story

back and forth,

from white leopards

to flamingos,

between songs and sutras,

woven together

at a weaver’s free will –

 

two minds

in an ocean

of atoms

soon to be merged

with evolving

whole

churning

without cease –

 

 

 

at sea

 

looking for a milestone

i followed in haste

a wavy line

along the water’s edge

before it vanishes

washed by a new wave –

 

with a scent of

seasonal wind

waves break

into white foam,

ever-changing

in unsettled daylight

in response to the tide –

 

after a storm is gone

scattered        white

butterflies

without               markings –

 

i wade through water,

weeds clinging to my ankles,

shell’s edge cutting my bare feet,

 

blindly

heading home

where i lived

before my birth
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