a woman with a wine bottle in each hand runs over grass past the window behind it we listen to back lit gurus squeak
Zhou plays the pipa three quarters sheathed in white riffs when the silk shawl slips from her shoulders the light from her neck is unchained and
the bread on my minimal altar translates the swish swish of her speech look I said to the lutenist, night swallows, and
the audience's faces upturn to the rain, there are ghosts among them lolling, they career
into the future far from the cries of disasters they smell pluto rising, it's the day when everything runs off the streets like thoughts, leaves, the vehicles, the triumphal cars their engines spew
cones of mist, light, snail trails on lichen, and other, resolving, nebulae