The cicadas repeat the same old rumors.
Even the leaves agree on green.
Tonight the fireflies will synchronize
their vespers. The moon will erase itself,
the only one not forgetting
to do the hard work
while we close the window
against night’s carbon scaffold
against the strands of wisteria
dangling from the trellis:
August’s purple-beaded abacus,
reckoning the days left of summer.
Soon autumn leaves will sieve their own veins
for last gold,
panning the random
among the temple lanterns,
Nothing on the way to the lighthouse, we pass
a broken fence
and a sky leaking out everywhere.
Soon Memory becomes our archipelago—
the dairy farm masking an orphanage,
the name of a man wed on crutches,
images once part of something larger—
like Italy’s brittle eyelets of islands.
In the meantime, congratulations.
The moon is full even when you can’t see it.
It is already tomorrow in Japan.
The sky is a conveyor belt for clouds.