THE REST OF IT

I took the solitary path

trailing off into the deep cornfield.

I chose a house hidden in a forest

of pagoda trees and wild pea,

where canal water slid quietly past a bend.

The shadows of the trees, the softfallen leaves

stirred a little on the surface

then sank deep into dream.

What were they, I wondered.

A road? A house? The light

rippling Ophelia’s face?

I needed everything. Everything.

The trail hazy with dust, the forestkeeper’s house

unvisited, overgrown with green moss,

the ditch water silent as death—all

so clear, so endless.

Now I sit down, facing

a landscape spawning crazily—

golden butterflies, pagoda tree leaves

in a paper Eden

building their last tranquil slumber.