I have kept you
Ko Un
for days longer
than the iron bound librarian
allows
you are a poet
of poets
because magpies sleep on your shoulders
through winter
and even a millet shortage uprising
cannot awaken them.
You write with the ink of your veins
about travelers you’ve met
on old village roads
who taught you to cherish your walk
through this world.
It was spring when you met
the inn owner’s daughter
and took her into the mountains
so you could touch the moon
only to become confounded by the knot
of her sash.
I am sorry to leave you
in the RETURNS cart
for who will instruct me
on the meaning of life?
I won’t stop
I will Ko Un.