Bewildered, he looks at her. She moves closer,
touches his cheek, whispers, what’s lost is ours,

How easily I teased these pins from her
robes once. Coaxing each one out with my mouth,

this face, these hands. I’ve lived too long underground.
My eyes cannot fix on the distance

The long-suffering sofa. A circular scene: the bull enters
the ring. The myth of man’s disobedience.

It was now a matter of waiting
for the haughty naughty beguilement of warmth.

Siren girls sang somewhere. A boat rocked. She could see
nothing, really. No clairvoyant forecasts.

Memory brings us back to such a place—
the rows of photinia, each leaf a red flame
(blood-tinged, almost) violent in sunlight,

We live in the heart of what can't be said.
These messages we are dying to deliver, to whisper
to you, reader, you beloved, you nations of the dead

The old man is back.
The house reeks of bacon.
The Jews next door

was first performed in 1703, shortly after
the deaths that stirred Chikamatsu Monzaemon
to write his drama. Sometimes criticized