I want you to simplify me with your love. Like the gratitude of paddy field to rain, with which it grew rice.

I want you to simplify me with your love. Like the prayer said by grass for the soil, which gave it life and in turn, enlivens.

I want you to simplify me with your love. Like works of the sun: rising-setting, giving names to morning, noon, eve and night.

Ticket

IT should have written your name, in that column.
Do I have to care about the name of the city and the airport?

It should have been the reason for my departure:
go home to meet you, for longing. "Repeat the word, completely
which can fit in empty space, on my ticket paper, "

I will say so, to the registrar.

2. Baggage

I WILL not give this to a haphazard officer.

My backpack will just hug me along the flight.
"It's an unfinished longing, longing to worry me.
There are many who are not caught. It's an incomplete longing, "
I will say so, when I get back to you.

I'm not going to let what is tightness scattered carelessly.


3. Waiting Room

I AM worried about you. The airport in this country is not fair.
There is never a good waiting room for pickup.

I'm worried about me. This heart's longing is also never fair.
There was never enough waiting time, for a moment to be patient.


4. Emergency Door*

WHY does the stewardess always, like telling anxiously?

I already know very well where and how to open
Four emergency exits, wear safety jackets, put up
And removing seat belts. I've been very anxious ever since
Bought the ticket I mentioned in stanza number one. Tickets are on
there I want to write my own name, flight date and time,
And the reasons why you so badly missed.

I do not want to be your metaphor, said rain to my tears
Then cry me with the sky, so you can no longer
Separating: between gloomy weather and unstoppable sadness

I do not want to be your metaphor, said the flower to my love
Then I put on the worst clothes and I became your gardener,
So you do not realize: what you picked every morning

My love is saltiness in your sea. The sun thinks he can vaporize me from you, making me a cloud in an unfamiliar sky. He was wrong, but let me do it, I do not want to blame him.

My love is the nutrient element fused in your garden's soil. The sun thinks only he who grows you and blossoms your flowers. He was wrong, but I will not blame him.

MONTHS are mature, the moon comes, I pluck you, with a doubtful hand and an abundance of anxiety. Night is ripe, night comes.

Moon hungry, wild moon. You make me a bat, take out. I am from the blind stone cave, hunting you. Night hungry, wild night.

The moon is sharp, the moon is deep. I'm a diver fisherman, long sharpening. Spear, on you I shut my eyes-wounded. Night sharp, deep night.

YOU delirious about the coastal span - from
the country that went on a hot year - then become the
beach your body: spread out - fragrant and hungry!

Like the perfume ad page, which is torn off
thick copies, magazines that chock short of pictures!

The one on you lies, I, which is released by the wind,
large pickaxes, mooring the sky, then sprinkling wildly

I started this guerrilla, facing my own shadow,
your spicy sand bath, quartz that grows hearts

Late afternoon. The sun goes past: yellow past
soon it was broken and glowing, the blood of a snake
I've repeatedly looked at digital numbers,
Casio - waterproof, 200 meters - an hour of the day



If the sea yells, the sentence is the waves!

He did not carry any name, until he called the bay
Place turtle loggerhead, from far journey,
Thousands of miles pilgrimage, to the sand he had hatched,
littered, food wrappers and beverage cans

This *******, like undesirable verbal abuse!



What have I found? Or broke it? I'm a farmer
threatened insect pests, certainly can not keep, seeds per
Seeds, immature rice. The season is short-lived.

When I see the location of the taxi to the North,
I also had to go back there, fold the map, then
stepping like a man's footstep -
like the song I heard from Springteen - and
write down a poem that I am afraid of his verses.

How Can a Moon Make a Shadow from a Boar's Body in a Forest Feeling The Entire Night?

2. Is the River in The Forest Choosing Himself Where He Was Turning or He Should Ask the Wild Boar Frequently Crossing It?

3. How Many Wild Boars in The Forest Have Ever Realized That There is Always a Moon-shaped Shadow from its Body?

4. If the Boar is Dead, Is the Shadow Dead or Staying and Hiding in The Shadow of The Forest?

5. Has The Wild Boar Ever Thinking That Moon Is a Boar Stuck at the Elevation Then Slept and Sleep Is On?

6. Is the Forest to Which There is No Boar Still Worthy to be Called Forest? Why No Boar Moon? Night Boar?

7. Can Later When I Die and Bury in the Forest, Then from My Grave Go Out a Wild Boar Without Shadow?

A non-compulsive lung asks for a laksa sauce: what sense can you always hide from me?

An urgent hand, saying to the crumbly crumbling cup: what injury are you preparing for me?

A non-threatening eye, whispering to the cauldron: what spice do you add to my boiled hooves?

The wobbling heart, suspecting the gaping gap: when should I be immersed in the flamy oil of yours?

(2013)

WITH a fractured beak, he stirred his own shadow, until he was dissolved in it.

With a weak wing, he hugged himself, until he could no longer be separated from the tightness.

(2013)