“Westerners are mysterious,”
you say.
How odd to describe
with the very words
that I see you.

Walking through the evening haze
willows a silhouette in night scene
a man dances with his sword
in unlonely isolation.
I do not exist,
his whole world centered
in this dance,
the sword alive
me writing under a street lamp
children jumping rope
yet another man gliding by
in backwards flow.

I am mysterious
you say.

 
27 Sept. 1995; for Karen