Sunday, October 20, 2013

in its plum age

here's a poem for this warm foggy day:

in its plum age
let the bamboo
adore a door

oh, to live in delay
of decomposition

let it, at most
come to fear
the compress
of brother branches

as other stalks
pass on, eat aerie
also dawdle, lei tepee

as the lizard’s
tail withers
away with the sawdust


let the dust delay
a stalk is a door
is the door a liar

let it bamboozle
the atmosphere

the compass saw a way
despite what we are
so, so of blood

come, press plumage
into a composition
a tale retold
branches, lives on

in the withered
the other, its after

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