No one had anything of interest to say.
Evening mountains veiled in somber mist,It's me, of course.
one path entering the wooded hill:
the monk has gone off,
locking his pine door.
From a bamboo pipe
a lonely trickle of water flows.
- Ishikawa Jozan (1583-1672)
Sometimes words are ski pole banging against metal trash can.
They rattle along curb, topple into street, strew empty elan.
It's my mind.
There isWhen door closes,
no one here
it isn't what is
it's what isn't
ready to be