On the Impossible Occasion When Venerable Matsuo Bashō Composed Hokku for Anne Sexton in 1969 Massachusetts 

Various lovers appear in 
snow angels today 
this is your day
sweet plum escape  
awaits the bite 
your mouth’s juices make 
sweet tea for two
In year sixty nine
Matsuo Bashō poured these
haiku, Anne Sexton said, 
sometimes I am a whale
at Sea World that sinks to
smother herself at the bottom,
her blood gases poison,
rolling over and over—
it is when I see my children
the family is shining, 
it is television eating
us and our eyes are 
so blue reflecting the 
flags lowered with 
with closing of the day.
The whale, taking
into consideration she 
is about to die, has a choice
to surface, hears a storm—
her nerves are trembling.
In her blowhole, the click 
tick-tock, click tick-tock
of spiny bones she thumbs
like a rolodex, a congregation
of fish epipleuralia—
a restlessness of breath in a
pocket with preacher’s sermons
stuffed inside of her—
but—a storm above!— 
above the water
is it the happy trainer?
waiting with the fish?
he with the plum wine?
to drench the deep branches? 
dredge minds to vacancy?
Oh Matsuo, my self’s self, 
I am not happy with myself—
keep pouring these teas 
into my limbs! —I suffer 
to know what else to do,
I hurt to know how else to help,
my friends, I don’t lie! Since
when have I lied? I could lie if 
I wanted but I am honest
at all times, I don’t lie! From
the removal of my blouse, 
to the unzipping of my dress, 
my skin is cream now
Matsuo Bashō you know
virgin as the plow
from field’s first summer
when there is no rainfall come
blossoms barely peek.
I will kiss you open 
on both the knees,
my moths twin lips
old boy when there is 
are poets Bashō. 
I cannot eat of Anne, live of her,
thrive of her, read of her,
I need a sensible companion,
and find no one in this world
to walk with—the globe 
is a distracted yawn of yahoos
returning by blood, by metal,
by hard-hats to bedrooms
in New England towns.
I’ve looked for God, Matsuo,
how about you?  How plumed,
ugly thistle-ogres appeared 
to the poor, but I didn’t hear Him.
It seemed a terrific idea to stay 
here for a time. I hold so tightly 
to Him, but I’m not sure I hear
anything at all.
I crave safari on tsunami
when you are weary of Kyoto
and the shriveled wings
of the crows
saluting one million rebirths
from your chest on the mountain,
come to me.