For 一茶 Issa
I see him in every station with a notepad and crumpled schedules:
Days spent beyond reason tracking arrivals and departures:
a code he knows without attending to anything more than his diaphragm
falling away from each departing breath: He counts the 5:40 from Nagoya
as it arrives washing in like the tide precisely on time —
cutting another groove in the metal of his mind: Synchronicity
provides for moments less manic but there is no rest for this watcher
or the other angels of attention I have met: tracking boats or buses or weather.
All of it matters: seasons, migration of fish,
monsoon, snowmelt, streaming bits of leaf over time
plugging the channel, the day when the tide spills over the causeway:
This great machine clattering on — Can the pulse of the universe be checked?
fingerprints left behind on the throat just below the opening
where the cosmic voice first emerged.
though also vigilant
I have been undone by constellations
of bodies, words, thoughts, a mistake triggered
by just the distance of a synapse.
So I proceed within sight: like all of the ants among us
attempting to follow the trail
through the only time I will ever be inside:
Watched by eyes with stronger lenses
I am certain that I