a crane bird

 

Mai, I wake up to

the rice fields, the

days, the conversations between us,

spanning decades, continents, you ask for

eloquent explanations

all I have is ghosts

there exists a dancing and the prang of

lost musical notes

each separated into one’s own small box you

taking a look now of your father or mother

the sun and sky

me being the evening moon

crisscrossed in the trees their

ripe sap creating

the very seeds for these days

untelling and unknowing

as an ink blot print or

the sting of a red ring stamp

which can be your thoughtful kisses

now destroyed years in