She is a portrait sitting in the sakura trees
sipping on jasmine tea prepared slightly off center the heat,
the metal coursing slowly to the boiling point.
She will later dip his britches in the broiling pot
to steam them of their daily grist
gathered in the sulfur mines.
The universe binds together two fortunes
who would otherwise never be attended,
the masterful lattice workings of dark molecules
that make up thousands of characters,
slight variations of inflection and emphasis
make a horse into a mother,
a chamber into the cover of night.
The childhood fright of fire
and milk in their eyes stirs to a whirlpool of insatiable
old magic delight in finding sense
in the whorls of fingerprints,
the lines of palms and crowns on faces.
A bamboo flute song has nothing to do with morality
it’s only about whether you fully covered the holes
as if nothing could phase you in your moment of need.
If you’re sure she will stay here
waiting patiently as jade
petrified wood laid to rest on the banks of reassurance,
the pulsing currents of blood stream meadows
and cricket love lingers long after the moon culls itself to sleep
in the hidden keep of hung gorilla nests from the strong trees,
we find ourselves closer related to our primates than previously believed
and relieved at the thought of sleeping out under the stars.
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