Narrations

 

This is the story
of that summer in the perplexed blue

The girl earth was rising with the bamboos
Truthful and amorous,

The Single Spirit swings herself in the lavish spark of
      the foliage.

(There are eyes in the shade, the walls can hear,
There are trolleys, angels, horse drawn carriages.)

I choose the river path.
I step hard in my parents' house.

I lie.

I am in the south, I am beyond, I move the waters.

It is the same as dying,
Throwing little rocks into a pond.

I look in the mirror.
The look erases me.

                        The route with thorns.
                        This is the story.

The hunger that confines, the fin of the cold fish
     in the open mouth, the ray of separation.

The hand opens itself to the vanity of memory.

 

 

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