Elegy for Kenji Ekuan

The artichoke heart
of the matter. Shamisen
shaming hamstrung string
theorists. The placenta
of attention. Where to start.

His designs. Like tholes

for thanatological
oars, soused in sauce
sorcery. His incitement
Hiroshiman shaving foam.

His mother struggled,

her rikishi-rictus knees
a koan of form,
and dark poured out, and Kenji,
his head in the mushroom clouds.

Silent syzygy?

Instruments in agreement?
The cold couloirs
of quartz are dumb to omens.
He saw straight through silica.

Thusly his death marks

a titivating triumph
of perspective; he,
with body now detritus,
bottled perpetuity.