Noah Burton

Feelings are Pointless

Walking up to the top of Mount Takao,

looking down, seeing the jagged switchback,

a grey white anxious topography, and

today, closing the pickle jar, I broke

the glass, sour in my hand, and

the shards cut me. Yet, I feel

my flesh, like this path on the mountain

where the first loom was crafted

and shawl woven, covering,

when finished, a sword that beamed

as the weaver watched the sun and day

and said, You—you are pointless, Day,

and the day turned darkly from the peak

to the night, and the sword, covered

with the shawl, hid its point.