The potato peels fall to the floor
in a country of rice.
The tatami needs replacing.
We must participate in something.
The aftermath still holds us,
infants and animals.
Shall we believe in the next light
or will it pass like the first?
What will you do with yourself
when the striving victim is done.
There is little to say at this pass between lives.
Hope comes lean and sculpted.
I thought happiness would be fat.
I seek Antarctic peace
unpopulated and spacious.
Having given up all attachments but one,
I feel some closer bone.
Wisdom guts us.
An empty seat
on a train so near full.