The Mist Between The Eyes

When the stonecutter
becomes genderless, I will ask―
who was the master of sky,
as sun goes down to sleep
behind the hill.

Deep and strange, beginning
always held the charm. You don't
want to age.

No oblique answer will satisfy
the sorrow of centuries.
Why the man was still wandering?

I touch you in full moon,
when it hangs on the tree,
and you shiver like a yellow moth.

Maple and sea don't learn
from history. The ache of bending
to shed the past for forgetting
the future. There was none to walk with.