Nyla Matuk

Three Poems


Spring, and he moves away, into
a room next to a simple tea-house.
He strolls the grounds and like spring
he makes a plan: flowers lead to honey.

He rivets wings onto his ankles,
waxy residue flaking softly, as down
into loam. Below, the plowman follows
the plow and the shepherd

minds his flock. Sailboats bob
on the water, fishermen cast
their nets, seashells pearl
the shoreline, and a town in

the distant hills conducts its fair
in the sunshine. Every body
busy at her task: nobody notices
his climb and headlong plunge

to the sea. A rush of water at interlunar
tempo is heard from the moon-viewing
balcony of the Katsura Imperial Villa.
But the approach to the entrance

of the Main Building is empty.
A verandah of the Musical Instruments’
Room hums in starlight. There is
an echo in the Pavilion. The absolute

modernity of such techniques will be
recognized and adopted one day.



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