Somewhere beneath an arc

  We sped through these arcs
    that had lined up in the fields,
  waiting for us to hold hands.
       Arc after arc, our grips
unfastened, as if the eyes we
had ever opened were mirrors,
waiting to be broken.
      Those arcs, under them
the fields so wet, and the promise
  of a grain of rice still floating,
waiting to be stolen.

Old man's foot

Old timer sat at the table,
scratching his teacup
with a counting-down expression;
a demonstration having
lifted itself above the
plain of narrative.
Sort of like counting
down to an explosion,
but doing it with a
serious seriousness.
With more substance
in his face, than in
his gaze - unlocking human
maps - as if from the depth
of a deep well, he saw himself
inside his own shadow,
trailing eternally, to
existence, trying hard enough
to be, where he was.
Old man, who I
did not know, made me sad,
made me want to subtract
my age from his; his regressions
from mine, and arrive
at a convenient supposition:
like his foot, slept just
as much as mine.