i have stopped using my head,
instead i will think with my soul,
that humble blade of grass in my chest,
that parking lot after all the cars are gone,
that baggy wistfulness like the trousers
on an old man's skinny legs, that dry tranquility
among the broken twigs.

when sorrow pulls at my feet,
i listen to the sounds brought by the wind
from a great distance.
the window makes sounds, not trying
to call anyone,
the sun keeps on setting, not wanting
to abandon anyone.

someone is reading aloud from a book:
The Worried Man Walks the Street of Happiness.
he is hard on himself, and his past
has already left without him.
he can see the bunched branches of the willows
combed neatly by a cool wind
lines of willows waving
one by one

oh so sadly

i can see him with my soul