-Ode to Turo Takemitsu-

A flock descends into

the pentagonal garden.

I try to understand Toru Takemitsu,

his residence of contemplation,—

the season in which

a flock of birds enter a garden space.

(Then the dragons air-breathing,
the boxes and pointed quads beating
with hand-knotted tails trailing,
cross the daylight skies above the park
of my earliest neighborhood.)

I try to map their movements now
from outside Takemitsu's garden, 
at times rolling slowly in atmospheric dances
then diving sharply toward the earth
in a moment's fury.

The papers crackled at their spars.

I fought the lines to hold them true.

I try to understand Toru Takemitsu — listening
to the sounds of kites in the wind above the park
of my earliest neighborhood.