Poem Written with Bashō [“The sound of the water jar”]

The sound of the water jar
empties in the open graves
where the refugees live.
Because it does not touch me
near my pillow
I can sleep and dream
of  the clean lines
of  summer. What I thought
were faces turn out
to be elaborate plates of sweets
not this human sadness.
One or two inches above
my head until the mosquito
sticks his snout
into my dream.

More Poems by Matthew Rohrer