I Thought I Could Find Basho

buried in a zen garden or at the base

of vermillion gates, when I caressed

its molded columns I thought he’d grab my hand

but the giant was nowhere to be found,

not on the expressway between capitals,

nor shadows of dignified cedar, nor carpets

of marshmallow moss, where I danced

to save my life.

I looked of course at the moon,

spring blooms, mums, bamboo, and pine.

I could not summon him, epic as Fuji,

evasive to my eyes. In summer he went

AWOL, free from warrior snails, kamikaze

cicadas, and typhoon maidens. The poet haunts

me now, having flung far from his homeland,

crash landing into mine.