humid breath 

between the rain and I 

a steamed window

one kettle
brews a future sip
of both tea and mint


leafbird dashes

once grey air 

now flourescent green 

damp wood
quiet lungs
final monsoon



your hair rivers onto the bedsheet
tracing movements made by the rest of you
your eyes move nervously in a dream
viewing their own private cinema
your fingers gently tremble under a moist breeze
I plant my warmth at your feet

adrift in you earlier I discovered forested lakes
in me your voice echoed across endless mountains
eventually water-falling over my shoulder
and turning the room into its lake
then birds flew out of us one by one taking turns
as we gazed upward with closed eyes searching for a sky

collapsing onto rippled cloth you became a range of dunes

awakened by the stillness of night
I witness you take new shapes beside me
the scent of our time passing grows gradually
buttoning myself I let my palm speak to your forehead
a soft fluorescence robes you like an ocean


I love this, just
the river and me
no spectators
only migrants from Siberia
all feathered

Swamps clot around us. Morning,
the shrill comeback of geese
Decors the air, newborn
grass waves its first poem

I love it most when we all settle
Me with my eyes and you with your universe
every bird speaking its own dialect,
without a translator, all grasp
the faint alarm of a predator. Magnificent take off –

Endless echoing percussion. Binoculars.


Really, such pretty flowers, aren’t they?
Growing amidst the noise of doubt
Blooming in smoke, watching forest fires
Standing among a horde of dead men, decaying
After being used in a war
Even the planes couldn’t stop them from growing,
neither could the invaders, neither could we
Really, how pretty these flowers are
Watching life sail by sagely, and even
While dying, undressing gracefully
Leaving behind scent for a hundred days