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Jack Granath

AFTER THE JAPANESE

A warm night, light
slipping from the sky,
your nose in a book
of Zen death poems,
and next door the lonely
young woman who
just moved in puts on
some music you haven’t heard
since high school—
a plain conspiracy.
You do the right thing,
citizen, you get off the couch
and crack that last bottle of wine.
Three hours later, singing
to the moon, you realize
that love crashes around
in this universe like
a thunderstorm, don’t try
to understand it.

–from Rattle #29, Summer 2008