Village of Chokan, 8th Century A.D.
If he returns after drinking his black wine
I-don’t-know-where. . . .
His armor, piled against the plum tree in repose,
puffs out its metal chest, shows off
its medal of blood
which came from a man I cannot know,
like most men.
There he is—
leaning against the open gate,
dark and less unknown than I’d feared. —No,
those are bamboo chutes bobbing in the wind,
rooted too long to dislodge.