No Bones About It
in the midst of this world / we stroll along the roof of hell / gawking at flowers
Issa (1762-1826), Transl by Sam Hamill
We drag our bones across the roof of Hell
as lost, alone. We ache for cold death’s knell
to quell the suffering of humankind,
in the belief perdition there would find.
The joy that’s here for our wide opened eyes
is neither down nor up, not earth or sky,
but that which lies within. So turn the page,
and dance upon that roof as Heaven’s stage.
Anne-Marie Burrus, John Allport
Ides of January 2018