By Louise Kim
—golden shovel after Kobayashi Issa
a glass vase holds wilting sunflowers. the
water is turning murky. the world
turns, beyond our control. the tears of
angels fall, softly, dew—
the worm dries to death after the flood. would a
softly drawn, carefully constructed world
be capable of such atrocities, of
such dreaded inevitableness? droplets of dew
shiver, tense, on blades of grass, ready for the picking. it
is a shame we met only now. it is
a shame we do not have much time. otherwise, indeed,
we would be yin-yang, two of the same, always together. and
we know this will be the parting dance—yet,
we kiss and kiss and kiss and kiss and
share our blazing, undying love. we cannot let go. and yet …
