The poet leaves clues- a trail of phosphorescent starfish from the depths of his impetuous inspiration to the foamy tips of his salt crusted verses. Sometimes you can uncover his secrets, hidden in the iridescent armpits of ancient coral, but mostly, you just let the moody waves wash over your thirsty skin and fill the emptiness between your toes with soulful sand.
In the summer night,
While the evening still seems here,
Lo! The dawn has come.
In what region of the clouds
Has the wandering moon found place?
(by Kiyowara no Fukayabu in Clay MacCauley’s translation of the anthology Hyakunin Isshuv-36)
Do you feel the balmy caress of a short summer night, so fleeting that evening turns to dawn in the blink of a dark eyelid, turning the moon into a stranger at his own party. What becomes of a moon that is turned away by the night? Or of a poet stranded by a squally love that left as unexpectedly as it came?
familiar as a lover’s breath
the blanket of stars