From cartoons for a poem “The sword’s inside”

The sword’s inside. We know it’s no mere

walking cane, but only after. Inside the plum or crabapple blossom, we

know, but later. Inside the carp. Inside the lake and reeds. In the bottle

itself. In dice. We know the sword in the coin as well as shadow. In

each eye. All mouths. In the poem, we crave it from each thing–in

flashes. Not to die at the hands of some thoughtless yakuza, not to die

of consumption, Hirate finds his only friend Zatoichi, the blind

masseur and swordmaster. On the bridge. I want you to be the one.

It’s absurd, says Zatoichi. But don’t you want to see how skillful I am?

I won’t let you win easily. The blind man a man so long. The cane a

cane, how to believe it’s already drawn? Without a flash, again,

unfurled to a point, and resheathed. Invisibles. Unlike the blind

masseur, the poem will spare us always and mercilessly. Let us cough,

shuddering, drip-drip, drip. The blossom a blossom, unseen fish fish.

For as long as possible, it wants. Even after the last drips, the mouth a

mouth, without a breath our words–still swords.