The night in our garden
is intense but fragile
the misty moon atop the dew
ceaselessly flowing into each other
The night in our garden
is full of longing
sucking up the vortex of thoughts
flowing like a river
The river in our garden
is full of silky fragrance
severed like cubes of ice
perched on our hunger
The hunger of the wind
on moss, ferns and potted plants
the hunger
in tales of lost love
On hungry nights like these
in our lit-up porches
we cook consciousness
which binds our thoughts
to skin and sylvan pitfalls.
