Plum Blossoms · White Gull Asks After My Lonely Boat

Why ask any more questions? The answer’s all shore,
all boats, all birds. I will leave behind my organs for science.
They still want to replicate my thoughts posthumously.
This is improbable. I am willing but believe it quite unlikely.
Even if I pinch my eyebrows and cough up blood, they would
still tell me a cheery fable of optimism and call it facts.
I could be doubled over while they dance a kindergarten dance.

Cold wind’s the cutest, the window, the solitary bulb, the light
it casts cute as well. Loneliness is also cute, its isolated body
particularly so. I’m shredded like paper with each passing day.
Just this week, I added a lot of middle-aged gripes to my husk.

This tabletop is an old trip like the fields where hardwood grew.
This cup is also an old trip, a root branching into daytime, neglecting the dark nights when it got repurposed. I have moved here an entire country. Let them host town halls and raise their hands.
Let them turn on the TV to watch new news and then congregate to discuss tomorrow’s imports, to sketch pictures from the future, and to build fertile human spaces where varied species can bloom.

Dreams are the cutest! What’s gone undreamed is even cuter.
In dreams I praise running rivulets, I praise the snowflake,
I praise the rainstorms which soak my clothes.
I praise those with less sorrow, praise them holding their bowls.
I praise those who tend to my security checks.
I praise the hard snowfall, the tender blossoms soon to come.
I praise my dinner, for the rib hidden beneath the braised wing.