1866

I think about it more than I’d like to admit:
a young cowboy in America–dirty, scuffed,
and taking care of the herd, riding across
dry summer fields on a black quarter horse.
To the west–to the west so far it’s East–
an old samurai, one of many in the last
generation of an ancient order soon
to be disbanded and stripped of power,
sits outside his estate under summer
stars. The crickets chirp and sing.
He runs a hand across the Satoyama
grass and watches the horse’s ear
flick with sleep. The cowboy does
not have much except what he carries
with him. He carries a secret love
inside his chest that fills his lungs
day in day out with hope and shame.
The samurai has learned to dwell
in shame and anger and has built
a monument to bitterness but that
is elsewhere. Everything is elsewhere
but for here. Above the two of them,
they have the cloudless sky. Beside
them they have a velvet-flanked
companion that dreams of softer
grass and sweets snuck in fondness.
Inside them, the vital air passes,
as if from one’s lungs to the other’s.