What was that silence, like a place the wind had swept
And left? Was that you turning away from the mirror?
What’s torn like a page from a fairy tale?
The shadow creeping over cacti and rock
Like memory of water? What’s that dream?
Where’s the love that turned the hour into wine?
What’s that door creaking shut on the heart?
What was your name? What's mine?
A line in my head swims, hooked through fin to chin,
Round and round, and against the tide, a word
To explain why, shore to shore, the sea is freezing ink.
THE DECAY OF THE ANGEL: NOVEMBER 25, 1975
The tando probes the horizon
Of the flesh
For a line between day and night,
Drawn left to right,
To twist and pull out,
Like noodles round a fork,
The honor of a man’s art.
What we say stops short
Of the crimson part.
And we say so much
Because enough can’t be said.
A body torn is
A curtain drawn;
Love and hate,
The mask resumes
Search for another face.
Morita’s hand may waver
Like the banner
Of an ancient empire
In an AC’s draught,
But Koga will bridge
With his sword
Between head and heart
As we sparse Mishima’s body parts.