ISSUE: Summer 1984
The night opens the pillow book
and shows us
ourselves.
In stages of dress and undress
our genitals seem to grow
out of proportion.
Flute of jade, moonflower
The lucky numbers
are odd.
Three irises in the blue and white
bowl in spring, chrysanthemum
in autumn.
Hidden by the fan of darkness,
my shoulder is almost bare.
You touch it.
On the bell-shaped lid of
the Chinese jar, a child
is playing.
