Fallen Leaves on Lake Chuzenji
At first as if a school of red fish
on blue pointed apices
the to-ing and fro-ing wavelets
of this almost breathing lake
but the trees are naked and flame
saturated leaves are writing
themselves upon the slate of water,
the sun bowing low to read:
kanji burnt red – an entire
season gathers here
to celebrate, and to drown.
Jazz at the Villa Celimontana
Candles dance among the pines
as notes from a saxophone strike
the stars; a Renaissance garden
settles quietly in its practised leaves.
Jagged music staggers out in a roar
over quadrilles of trees, meteors
splash against the night like rain
on hot black pavement, extinguished.
Conceal, says the heart, what the jazz
might find: chance to cancel
what might yet heal, that love is a lie
that only the lips can feel.