As the petals proceed in drift, breathes in silence
a swirling tale of horizon twirls; forever.
At the door of yesterday’s palm, Tao Qian
strolled through plum blossoms for inner peace.
The collars wrapped in their own; the
quasars' nail to the nail’s marble mountain,
And the name stood the rigours of inescapable
time between the narrow strings of singularity.
The larvae in the water will never hear the story
of life on the other side.
Mere mere, a canvas space-filled
chun ju with thoughts and truths
and threads tapering down to the
hidden hexagon with autumn’s singing feathers
spread along long-standing supermassives
west along the wattle fence and pillars
thick as Virgo’s patterns in vernacular trois;
Going back into history
Coming into the present’s path
The rest of all:
Woven into the future’s orbit.