Fences fail quietly—
in a slow tilt,
colors give way,
surrendering—
a silent retreat
from brown to brittle.

I press a finger,
catch the rough
edge of metal,
its dust scratching my skin—
years thin us,
like coins drowned
in riverbeds.

It goes this way,
I think—
a long fade,
grit slipping
into dark water,
turning to mud,
just enough to remember
we once held on.

And I wonder if we, too,
were made to loosen,
to dissolve—
no shards or splinters,
just a long sigh—
as time corrodes
at our hearts,
turning all we were to rust.

A carpenter touches me,
  feels length and texture,
    adjusts to perfect fit,
      varnishes till I glow
        with polished pride.

Aristocratic fists
  use my glossy guide rail
    to find their champagne boxes.
      They listen in patchouli perfumed privacy
        while I hear only distant chords
          of an unseen opera.

When the lifts fail
  bent arthritic fingers grasp
    and haul old bodies
      grumbling and groaning,
        step by step,
          to the circle.

But my favourites are the sticky paws
  of children ******* sweets
    hurrying to the pantomime;
      in their haste
        they leave a tacky sucrose veneer
          on my glassy lacquer.
        
          My sugar coating lasts
      until the complaining cleaners
    reset the theatre
for tomorrow.

Cānghǎi lǎoguī mù cǎilóng,
Bìbō shēn chù yǐng chóng chóng.
Suìyuè diāozhuó jiānyìng ké,
Qíng sī wàn lǚ rào xīnfú.
Dōngfēng fú liǔ chūnyì nóng,
Lóngnǚ yānrán xiàoyǔ zhōng.
Yuàn dé bì dì liánhuā gòng.


The Dragon Maiden and the Sea Turtle
The ancient turtle yearns for the vibrant dragon,
In deep blue waves, shadows throng.
Years have carved a hardened shell,
Yet countless love threads his heart compel.
East wind brushes willows, spring's joy thrives,
The dragon maiden smiles, her laughter survives.
May we together share twin lotus lives.

I can hear your voices falling
Up the stairs
Like shadows from the living room
A song stuck in my head
That I can only hum.

When I’m older I’ll remember
Feeling warm and hearing
The music of your laughter
Muffled by the door
And I won’t know the details
But the stories, I’ll remember.

two maybe three times a day the
wave
crashes on the surfer but he's
ready
he's seen the tide he's breathed
it
he's drank it and got it all bubbled
up
in his stomach like me with two
feet
on dry land but at least he's in
halfpipe
dreamland dancing the earthtime
groove
at least he knows what he's in
for
i'll just slalom down this beach
in
my petty thematic way and i'll
kick
over the sandcastles in protest
of
this prima nocta glassdust.