Crooked and simple
have been wrongly

attributed to the
land of sunflower flute.

Scroll with writing
on unquiet mists are

all withered by
the dews of wine.

A ghost cried
about stories from

their love silks
between the clouds—

strangers together
will pluck wistaria

away from
the village serpents.

When dawn came home
to bed the world

rolled from the sky
swiftly daring moonlight

as painting silk.
Autobiographical juggler

as the magpie’s
of wine and laughing

gaze has never changed
from minding stubborn.

The old wanderer moors
his mistress behind

the apricot tree
and laughing companions

lie buried
beneath the river.

Across orchards
and brambles

until the shrine
of wine sits close

by the chance
that the sages are

all withered.
Candles forgotten

could only hope
for illumined conception

by exploits of
pearls and flesh.

Scatter evidence
of all the sorrows

that listening can evade.

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