I met, often, on the road. That year, because

Of the taxes required by the Shogunite, no one

Had any money, & often

I would pause, wondering how those who truly

Had something to complain of could

Bear it any longer—

Those who were poor & with sick children, whose father

Pawned heirlooms meant to last a thousand years—

The cold wind swirling through each split

Matting of rushes meant to hold

Their houses together,

Their frail argument against the wind,

Their kneeling to pray in a season

Of high fever.

I do not wish to exhibit a feeling which some,

Perhaps out of political ambition

Or simple indifference,

Might consider too generous & boastful.

Many of us thought the same things,

Many of us, in our youth, had known

Such people, & have indeed wondered where

They have gone.

Towed up the river to some new town,

We would look back at them as they

Waved to us from the pier.

We thought we would live forever, then;

We did not know we were lights dancing

On black water. Soon,

We stopped writing them long letters, although

Once, we would have said

Such letters continued to be written, always,

In our hearts. But it is

No longer fashionable to say such things, the way

We once said them, before we found out

About style, & how completely

It explains us to each other.

It is as if, without knowing it, we all

Suddenly longed to be diminished: lights going out

Along a river, & a whole

Town abandoned! But sometimes,

I still think of that great dead lord,

Whom I defended, &

For whom I would slit an enemy open, from

Forehead to abdomen, when he at last

Displayed that hint of hesitation

In the body, by which

One recognizes a liar. I moved, using one stroke;

No second thoughts.

It would have been the same for him

If I had discovered, in a sudden weightlessness

In my shoulders, a laughter throughout my whole body,

The same lie in myself.

“I know

There are those who think we are thieves

Interested only in profit.

I prefer to believe, with my old master,

That there are men & women in this world

For whom I would willingly give my life, &

That we, who studied in such schools,

Are the last to know

How to move gracefully

In those exact measures meant to correct

Time, which knows

Nothing of itself, nothing

Of the damage it can do,

And which it is condemned to do:

My wife is dead;

My daughter is beautiful;

The first snow has just fallen & if I am older

It is because I have looked out & noticed it.

It is because

It has tricked me into this final maneuver,

This turning toward a white window,

Something my master always told me it would do, &

Against which all swords are useless!”

THOSE GRAVES IN ROME

There are places where the eye can starve,

But not here. Here, for example, is