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The sound of a broom sweeping across the earth
has been created by me this fall
In the poem I see a bamboo grove behind your house
where the chapped hands of your father gathered a bundle of bamboo sticks
Three chips showed up on his bamboo knife
Two buttons missing from the front of his shirt at unknown times
You brought this broom made by him into autumn
In an open area in the forest smoke from burning waste grass rose into the sky
Night wind blew at will in this poem
I created a sound—it
stays close to hard concrete, close to
each dusk and dawn of this fall
Were your father still alive
at present he would be in a certain corner
his hands familiar and strange to you
covering his collar