this brush is slipping,
so i will mouth these words,
fourteen years muted,
"i love you, Hor Chun,"
decorated in sequins, silk
and scarves of incense smoke
like the dolls in Honk Kong
windows.
reel back these strings; weave
a dress of blood silk, a veiled
headdress, a ring.
find me on the next freighter home.
comfort for a muse