The first typescript
[Page 39]
V-II |
lying | ||
I thought I saw you on the Recamier couch. | ||
Maybe this was just another one of my visions. |
Once when coffee and tea were offered | ||
Or the Veranda of the wild {root} flower{-root} palace | ||
You appeared wearing mended stockings which did not match. | ||
The other guests have long since forgotten the disgrace, but I have not forgotten. | ||
Nor can I believe your embarrassment has been so short lived. | ||
Each of us offered flowers to the other. Mine was geraniums | ||
And water lilies in a rusted metal can. | ||
Yours was just a bunch of old dandelions. |
That was a good joke you played on the other guests. | ||
A joke of silence. |
The last tadpoles have turned into frogs. | ||
# | ||
The spring, though mild, is incredibly wet | ||
The roof leaks onto this page the desk, blurring the handwriting. | ||
If only there was enough money to repair the roof! | ||
Suddenly, as fish become a ducks, leave the side of a stream | ||
The rain stops, and the wind starts beating among the tiles |
I have spent the afternoon blowing soap bubbles | ||
And am no longer fit for the company of my fellow humans. |
Seventeen years in the capital of Foo-Yung province | ||
A-hii-y! A-hii-y! | ||
Surely woman isXX was made for something | ||
Besides almost continual fornication, interrupted by menstrual cramps. |
The birch-pods come clattering down on the moss-grown marble pavement. | ||
And a curl of smoke stands above the triangular wooden roof. |
Engineer Y said, "The clouds hang in the heavens | ||
Like hungry hawks above a cornfield." It is time | ||
To go inside now, | ||
To slam the back door, and curl up with the misery of a good book. |
How many scrolls in your library | ||
How many illustrious fronds decking the branches of your family tree! |
True, but ancestors aren't everything. | ||
Even good breeding isn't everything. | ||
A lot depends on the will to good behavior, | ||
And quiet, natural manners. |
The "second position" | ||
Comes in the seventeenth year, | ||
Watching the meaningless girations of flies above a sill. |