The Dragon-Helper stood in
a grove, two paths before him
and eyes behind ever pale conifer.
Half a lifetime of smoothing
luminous scales and polishing
wicked ivory fangs and launching
curling serpents into the sky
to scream their tales—he was weary.
Down one dirt path lurked the kappa,
mischievous minds and beckoning
fingers. On that watery path, thousands
of trickling voices, licking blood from
their mouth corners, whispered.
The other way lay Kyoto, insane,
a concrete labyrinth of ephemeral morals.
along that decaying road, farmers
sometimes shouldered their grains and
glanced up at the spiraling dragons.
He took violet rose petals like pills
and drank their bitter sweetness and
smiled and dropped his ink-soaked blade.