The locust references its leaves through shoji screen.
Along slick banks of morning mind
the obsession with dying. The dead, I think.
A dream I leave dripping, sunlight in my hair.
Yesterday I left a city. Its subways
moved like mice through snakes.
One season pulls away a little, which makes us ache.
I could learn to catch its fingertips.
Look the dark lake in its eye. Touch the wild
yellow iris caught in its lashes.