I wrote this poem this morning:


Sinking into the circles
of Awa,
navy and grey-- my eyes
as I watch your letters
fly away over the surface of the sea.

Hiroshige painted waves
and I collect scraps of paper.
This is what the water gives me:
a recollection of what
the empty halls of my life
look like with all the posters removed
no residue
just wooden paneling that will be
cracked when the ocean comes through.

The Great Ocean gives and takes
ebbs and flows
creates towns and rips them away
over the cliffs

arguing with the wind
about who came first.

The answer is both. together.

--HAS 7 December 2011