One James Wright walking
a moonless, smoky November field
with Ohio River slosh for soundtrack,
skies sagging toward winter –
 
better than two Homers,
crossing the Aegean
in a slap of sea to hull,
the wars ahead of them,
the words not yet memorized,
 
better than three Bashos,
all huts abandoned,
the road from Edo, snow-covered,
a scribble of madness for hooded cranes
feeding along the cliff jags.