—I can’t translate much,

But I know the symbol for the sun:

Two empty boxes, or the dusty corners

Of a sunporch. Will they never

Tell the weather?

The Iharas left this delicate letter

Crushed behind a desk drawer,

Ballpoint Japanese

On paper thin enough to divide a soul.

Took J. to the place

where you and I saw the rat.

This time was different—my first

Green heron flew under the low trees

And chose a branch

That strawed up winter life

From the blank pure springwater.

Is it gloom if it startles and shifts?

Lovelier yet,

The bird was immature,

Streaked, and unknowledgeably late for this meridian.

Phoebe keeps cutting larger and larger scarlet letters,

Wants to know exact material and style.

Yes, she can translate the A,

Ornate or plain. She stalks me

And suddenly I’ll feel something held against my back.

She tries it there, before I’ll admit

To wearing it face on.

I like it, I say,

I like anything you make for me.

Frail characters!

And they will keep appearing, surreptitious surprises.

We must be unready for them.