WebPoems

Without people we long for houses,

And discover them nested in the rocks;

What happened to the brush?

Are we so high it can't grow?

Or have these people stripped the shore,

Mowed the hill, to live? Blue rooves

Whisper together, hunkered down

So low their owners can't see more than the tip,

Or sense the presence, behind these flat fingers of fog,

Of that freezing eye, the austere ghost, Mount Fuji.