Sublime

Shifts in the narrative would occur—the past never a fixed and dormant landscape but one that is re-seen.

sometimes entire libraries of epic poems land in your palm as a single paper-thin sigh. sometimes it is as simple as love.

Why have these memories been brought out again, here in Japan—the orange scarf, the garden—like a yard sale of his life? Has he lost his mind, or is everything a reflection? The butter bean, the mugwort, the scarf, the garden; is this not a window but a mirror? Two birds are quarreling in the fountain. Again, as he did as a boy, he can only look on

Be the beating myth to his tin man chest. Be sesame oil to his white bread.

“We are that fraction of old magic that remains.”