Tears of my own
The dog that bites its own tears,
the fire that grills its own dog,
the throat that swallows its own fire –
along all that,
cruising down the umami samsara
I will cool my own restlessness with my own funeral fan.
I will pick the choicest leaf off a garden, impregnated by a tempest.
I’ve been feeding on the leaf, making a racket.
I wield a sword, giving out threats.
Beguilement, Deceit, Sham, Trickery,
Oh the Cricket!
In each Cricket’s tibia there’s a sword.
In each sword a dance.
In each dance an unknowable antenna.
In the glass eyes are images of this or that world.
The way clouds recede from view
hoodwinks my name.
The wind that sets its own house on fire,
the crops that sow their own wind,
the lips that grip their own crops –
in the Cricket’s leap just before its flight
shall I throw the dice on the verge of death, just shy of falling like a leaf,
pretending to wind-surf, or
shall I permeate another