Just across the way
from me
there is
what appears to be
a
crematorium.
Its smoke has charred
the rim of its
column
and floats just
above
the
roofs of our houses
toward the
wall of
black mountains
nearby.
These
reach up
toward the colored
clouds,
thus simul taneously
touching life
and
passively
encountering
death,
recalling
the stature of the samurai.
Hereby the
local
morgue
feeds our
archetypal
imposition as
well as our
scenic
constitution.