cold mountain (9)

The torn passage from evening to dawn. The sun hasn’t set, just slipped away unstable, unreliable; look, the moon past full a week hanging like a bright spot of mold. Time scrubs it away and then it grows again. I slept and rent my clothes from me in dreaming, woke and put on my face again. The day’s a seamless whole stiched together from the fingernails that old man chewed off in the night. Catch your sleeve on them, caught whispering words in a language no one taught you.


The internet gods are kind tonight and I was able to get the characters for the poem. As charming as amateur calligraphy might be, it’s nice to see the poem in a font, too.


2 comments on “cold mountain (9)

  1. Dale Favier says:

    Wow. I had forgotten what a good poet you are: I was too busy being intimidated by your spiritual attainments!

    • seon joon says:

      Coming from you, Dale, this makes me blush, since you’re one of my mentor-poets.

      (And want to say, “Spiritual attainments? What spiritual attainments?…”)

      One writer to another, I’m sure you’ll understand what I mean by what it’s like to feel “off” and what it’s like to feel kind-of “on.” I’ve been feeling “off” for a couple of weeks–unsurprisingly, given headaches and meetings have occupied a lot of that time–and this response felt “on,” or at least more so than others. Glad to know (*blush*) that you enjoyed it.

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