The Turtles Swarmed Beneath Me,

and Everything Was Green


for e.t. and d.c.



I saw Santa’s bones in Italy,
a miniature tornado of cold

whipping behind the wide, clamorous
sternum. I saw night like a dead

cicada, meaningless on the floor
when the hotel bed was a tire swing

and we were in Kalamazoo, wearing
our coats between rooms and other,

outdoor places. I did not see the shard
of Buddha’s collarbone in Nara,

but I remembered it was there
as I passed a second time,


^


I remembered I’d wanted to
tell you, but then forgot when the phone

rang dry. Besides, I haven’t learned
to say much (keeping my hands to myself,

my chopsticks out of the air), but you can
bet I’ve whispered plenty, a few small things

in passing. I want to settle, like the trampled
futon on the floor: in the evenings

get gnawed, but mostly wake up buoyant.
I want to hang out over the rail, and

overnight go fluttering to the street.
I want to crouch with you beside the rice,

go looking for frogs to throw at the gods,
and say, I’ve seen that mountain everywhere,

but I can never place his face. Sure,
I saw those turtles in the moat,

but I crossed, I kept walking,
I did not see you there.