At dusk I try to prune as many leaves
of the persimmon taken over by rot.
I don't remember the last time I scanned
the sky for the evening's first star,
but I know the moon's rising by heart;
I still look for evidence of order in this
apron pocket of the universe. I was taught
it's bad luck if your bed faces the toilet,
which is where things go down the drain;
it's good luck if your bed faces north and not
south, because of the star that guides. Don't lie
with your pillow facing west. Tuck some rice
grains, a vial of oil, a thimbleful each of salt
and sugar in the darkest corner of the house.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
