all yellow because the ground sourd.

tiny gobo seeds, grow into twisty two foot long roots.

spinach seeds next

soaked over night in warm water

left from the bath.    makes them germinate quick.

dump weeds from the wheelbarrow back in the bamboo grove

peas planted in double rows, making holes

four inches apart

with fore finger, stick in two seeds

poke it in

later fertilize all with the dippers

yoke of wood buckets, that “human” smell

not near so bad as you think

clean off these heavy heavy boots

when the soil is all tilld and the winter seeds

sowed

casts of mud

with the back of a sickle

stooping in gravel

December

Three a.m.—a far bell

coming closer:

fling up useless futon on the shelf;

outside, ice-water in the hand & wash the face.

Ko the bird-head, silent, skinny,

swiftly cruise the room with

salt plum tea.

Bell from the hondo chanting sutras.    Gi:

deep bell, small bell, wooden drum,

sanzen at four

kneel on icy polisht boards in line:

Shukuza rice and pickles

barrel and bucket

dim watt bulb.

till daybreak nap upright.

sweep

garden and hall.

frost outside

wind through walls

At eight the lecture bell.    high chair.

Ke helps the robe—red, gold,

black lacquer in the shadow

sun and cold

Saiza a quarter to ten

soup and rice dab on the bench

feed the hungry ghosts

back in the hall by noon.

two o clock sanzen

three o clock bellywarmer

boild up soup-rice mush.

dinging and scuffing.    out back smoke,

and talk.

At dusk, at five,

black robes draw into the hall.

stiff joints, sore knees bend

the jiki pads by with his incense lit,

bells,

wood block crack

& stick slips round the room

on soft straw sandals.

seven, sanzen

tea, and a leaf-shaped candy.

kinhin at eight with folded hands—

single-file racing in flying robes leaning

to wake—

nine o clock one more sanzen

ten, hot noodles,

three bowls each.

Sit until midnight.     chant.

make three bows and pull the futon down.

roll in the bed—

black.

A far bell coming closer

Envoy to Six Years

Down in the engine room again

Touching a silver steam line

with a tiny brush.

Soogy the oil sump—gloves and rags—

—“how long you say you been Japan?

six years eh you must like the place.

those guys in New York

bunch of fuckin crooks.

they ain’t just selling

little two-bit caps, they making books.”

Rinse out the soogy rag in kerosene,

And wipe off sooty oil condenser line

Driving forward geared turbine—

The driveshaft treetrunk thick,

Bearings bathed in flowing oil,

The belly of the ship.

When I went down
to sea-lion town
my wife was dead
the canoes were gone

ALYSOUN

My mother called you Robin.

I curst your blisters

when we fought brush

hunting the trail

in the forest gorge of the Elwha—

forded creeks and found the path,

climbed three switchback miles

to camp and cook       by dark.

You whimpered all night long