Bullet Train


I came to Kyoto

the quick way –

splitting rice fields

in a flash,

arriving under the mountain

in an instant,

only to sit around

walk around


do nothing.


What good is speed when time stretches out forever?


I returned from Kyoto

the quick way –

splicing villages

in a blink,

arriving by the ocean

so fast,

only to lie around


write this poem

and wait on death.


What good is speed when the marker moves with us?


Better to listen for

the cuckoo’s cry

and drink warm tea.

The bamboo in the garden

I’ve never known

to rush –

but how we prune it

with such vigor!

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