Classic Poem

A thing too perfect to be remembered:
stone beautiful only when wet.

***

Blinded by light or black cloth —
so many ways
not to see others suffer.

***

Too much longing:

it separates us
like scent from bread,
rust from iron.

***

From very far or very close —
the most resolute folds of the mountain are gentle.

***

As if putting arms into woolen coat sleeves,
we listen to the murmuring dead.

***

Any point of a circle is its start:
desire forgoing fulfillment to go on desiring.

***

In a room in which nothing
has happened,
sweet-scented tobacco.

***

The very old, hands curling into themselves, remember their parents.

***

Think assailable thoughts, or be lonely.