Michael Mazur

Did you really
have to show up on the Doppler
like scroll master Guo Xi
of the Northern Song-
dynasty?—
short answer: yes:
the flicker strokes
of your brush putting on a full-court
press amid light
come to rest on tide water:
the marine layer
in your paintings
a cousin to calm mist upcountry
and sister to the seething heaven
falling all at once over the lankiest salt hay
and most barbarian
sand dunes east of the Yangtze estuary.
Who am I speaking to anyhow?
Mike. He's here, on this screen
in these words,
the friend no longer hurtling
forward in any
noticeable way. No he's not,
he isn't here. Don't say so—
even if the night
ends as it does
once a month with the morning
warning no parking on the odd-numbered
side of the street—"you will
be tagged & towed"—
all blood that hurries to love
other blood
loving the sun
that shines after street cleaning
by the cab stand
as Rosh Hashana picks up
speed, everywhere
at once.