diary / by Edward Mullany


Between the pages of a book I’ve been reading, about a poet who lived long ago, in a cave on a mountain in a rainy part of Japan, and who died before any of his writings were published, so that he never knew his work would find an audience, or that people like me would one day think of him, though it’s possible he didn’t dwell on such things, or that, if he did, he cared, I have a bookmark on which I have drawn, during a moment of idleness or daydream, the semblance of his face as I imagine it to be, though likely as it never was.