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