After Kurosawa

In Rashomon the rain 
does not sleep, sounds
            like ink-darkened pages, turning, then 
unwriting themselves. 

In the unrecognizably literal forest
            likeness is like falling, 
like catching, 
like falling. 
                                                 It is human nature to fall
into the middle of things. 

What matters is that in this tale someone’s dead, 
                                                 murdered, 
tied to a post and things unsaid. 
Some arctic continent of unspeakable 
names opens wide round. 

Mifune conjures close a relentless ghost, deeper than you think, 
            and who’ll speak for it?—That’s where you come in. 

Remember me remember
what is here
what is white what is true 
what is heat. 

                                                 As you turn to go, 
the weave of threadbare scrolls goes slack— 
            the day becomes a draft of distances 
no one can bear. 
                   Still, it moves: 
                        Look/tell, look/tell, look/tell. 

In the coming dark, everyone left until the room spun 
against its own 
                        unblinking. Not even the story
            owns its own
moment. 

            And, later, who would not wish

in the want-nothing light
to wear a face 
                                                              just like
the rain in Rashomon.