In reverse of the waddle wheel
the landscape runs back in blow
of winds that take a hair threadlike’s hand
to dance a trickle of pathos
when I swallow.
Not thoughts of of prattle, but roars within struggle
as if time concreted through spaces, still,
to contingency thee confide.
What a subtle heaviness to stand where I shall revel
What a terrible freedom to know what I cannot sail
It’s gonna end.
But until now I can’t even tell
what I am missing,
for what, and by whom?
19:58 January 22, 2025. In Xishuangbanna's breeze, damp and feeble and summer.
