A photograph
on the back of a hand mirror
resembles someone you knew
who sang themselves utterly away.
It cannot touch you
or the sound of the rapids.
Leave it, and walk farther
crawling up my leg
to find me all smiles
attached to nothing.
You and I can stay
in the morning dew.
My little telephone
in the mulberry fields
going unanswered
on that blade of grass.
Poem written with Basho, by Matthew Rohrer
