In dark ink renders the crest of
The mountain that dominates the ancient
Sea-bound landscape, the thought will have disappeared,
Inches above the barely weeping trees,
Absolved of its ink, and there
Dissemble there not being a poem
At all where all these things come
And go, amounting to something and
To nothing and, I hope, something else again
(a yellow stamen, a dust of pollen)
Something there is
Prepared for what, in a different scroll,
In a similar room, becomes
A wide, flat black stem arching
To suppose a red lotus blossom
In air