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1
Trying
to sweep the ocean
into a jar,
I bow
to my broom
for its willingness
to help.
2
Having the ocean
secure in a jar,
I shake,
gazing in
at the fish and the waves,
at the moon's calm reflection.
"But,
now, there's no room
for my broom!"
That moon's reflection
will have to go.
3
I hook the moon's
dripping reflection
on a nail over
my window.
When it dries
I'll frame it.
4
My broom's bamboo bristles dig
into the muddy ocean floor,
sweeping up clouds
of murk
and shipwrecks before antiquity.
But, regardless of how I turn it,
there's no way
I'll get my broom's long handle
under the lip
for the lid.
5
Trying
to cut the end
off my broom's handle,
I bow to my saw
for its willingness
to help.
But, shit,
it slips
and I crack
the jar.
6
Tape won't do.
Glue won't do.
I pull out my broom--
my friend--
and we wait
for the jar
to break.
7
The ocean
unsweeps itself.
8
(10,000 years)
9
Up to my nostrils in ocean,
I see the moon's
reflection reflected.
It hangs calmly
over my window.
Now
it's dry.
The nail is rusty.
Jerry Gordon
Born in Los Angeles, I only discovered how great trains are after coming to Osaka. This poem was actually written on the Midosuji subway one morning, standing up on the way to work. In addition to writing and riding trains, I play heavily improvised music on quiet instruments with Charles Billard as part of the band Smouldering Door. We invented PlinkPlonk music, which will not make us famous. Our most recent CD, "Dances from the Court of Flying Insects," is not really available unless you can contact me. But, my 2003 spoken word CD, "Fully Formed Failure," is available from Aphasia Press at http://home.surewest.net/aphasiapress/jgordon.html. I live in Sumiyoshi-ku with my wife and two children. My bicycle is rust colored.
Copyright by Jerry Gordon
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