English
  • Bibliography

     

    We are experiencing all the course of beauty;

    My heart has handwriting hasty

    And accurate wording

    A copy of midnight is as thin as a copy of diary

    – – Recalled the morning when I was born

    The womb of sky unified my mother’s abdomen

    So snow descended

    Since then my name

    Has had an extra pure white reference page

  • Lemon

     

    A lemon from north,

    sour tropic, dormant lava juice,

    not salty enough to rhyme with tears.

    At a kiss of a blade,

    it erupts. Liquid universe surging

    within, galaxies, nebulas,

    Three seeds emerge from the debris

    of the explosion. Ellipsis

    that sprout, that track the punctuations of a cosmic:

  • Insomnia

     

    Wake up

    with dry skin

    & wet heart.

    It’s hard to sleep

    with thunder tears.

    Moon melts

    into a drop of tear

    – salty darkness.

  • Starry Days

     

    We generated kites of every star color

    In this era depleted of skies.

    Even all the clean clouds are blinded

    As long as we could be healed

    By moonily drizzles, we are still young

    With wrinkles upon slightly windy face.

    My messages are resilient and concrete,

    Delivering to you via shooting stars

    Owning names and origins itchy.

    Mutually we possessed

    Tears wiping your rooftops clean.

    So when the night is hard enough,

    I allow myself to resume in you

    I pulse and pause with stars

    Being my rhetorical question

    And mountains persevered in memories

    My deepest and longest anecdote.

  • Simplicity

     

    Now I’m going to tell you that butterflies are complex.

    The hint of wings is complex.

    The pollination of spring is complex.

    Gliding with a soul is complex.

    Colorless wings are complex.

    Colorless is complex.

    Crossing through a sustainable blue is complex.

    B being the second letter in the alphabet is complex.

    Fly being a word is complex.

    Butterflies existing in language is complex.

    Here’s the final word:

    A butterfly

    Is.

  • Lava Step

     

    A scarlet planet resides

    In my flesh – so I am unprepared

    To be covered.

    I grow to be a habitat of the hidden.

    Here I sit,

    Scrapbooking the boundaries

    Of flames into my orbit.

  • Some Birds

     

    Autumn applause broke

    Into a sunset of sparrows;

    I forgot the way to migrate.

    Lurking into my little nest-like home

    Through my half-open window –

    I can’t help but pouring out

    The three quarters of my tears in my life

    out:

    Skyline. Bedroom. Scarecrow:

    Pounding in my dreams

    along the journey

    Like thousands of migratory birds

    Still flocking.

  • March

     

    Spring unfolds like a letter from home.

    The camphor tree peeking into my window,

    Young, wears its cold green leaves.

    Swallows comb the sky with their wings.

    When night slips into my collar,

    I look for a way for my heart to germinate.

    Moon ripples in the sky,

    The buttons on my shirt,

    Half stars, half ample fruits.

    Grass irons my cotton shirt clean.

    Moist breezes glaze my lips.

  • May Day

     

    Swallowed an anchor with roots

    To answer a question that’s subjective

    Used brackish rains to rhyme with my left ear,

    Like I’m falling for walking down

    A closet in a jumble. For search

    A button of words

    In the dark.

    Like trimming rains without a mother.

    Told ¾ grass and ¼ raindrops lying on the floor

    (Earth worms and earthly rains, trample into half,

    everywhere)

  • Age

     

    Years skate across your skin.

    How did the reason sediments

    In my name.

    Once upon a time

    A girl seals an envelope with a kiss.

    & Beside it my flowers wilt

    As if they have a name of spring in them

    Waiting to grow old.

  • The road

     

    We exchange

    Our

    mires and cliffs

    via

    fictional

    hugs, breaths, sleeps and

    strokes.

  • By the Window

     

    So much depend upon

    The stars like freshly fried eggs

    Clings onto the plate of the national flag

    Manipulated pink and petals

    With a radian that’s artificial:

    As if they’ve just been workshopped;

    Also lavish sunlight

    crowning the window

    with tender afternoon wind

    growing warmer and dimmer

    even more.

  • Border

     

    I’m holding my empty Organs

    like holding a bowl never filled

    & waiting for Moon

    to stamp on my porcelain Stomach.

    There will be a lark

    that splits open my Heart

    to build a Nest out of it

    Clouds burn out crimson wounds in the Sky.

    Birds that fetch words back to drown the Ocean

    Gush out of all my joints.

  •  

    You can’t handle the truth
    your skin as soft as a breath, a lie
    if you wake up on the wrong side of your secret
    and get lost on the orbit of fear, surrounding your delicate membrane
    if you keep plunging yourself into a cold container
    if you mix up refugee with shelter, in a regime made of memories
    where your heart lies, and you grow redder each day

  • Flower in the Dark

     

    My life so easily fogs, Godot,

    Our speech made of young seasons

    Still cannot persuade any of the flowers.

    All those who wither are spelling out a crimson winter.

    Red: reminds me of snow;

    Of those bloods which are similar yet opposite.

    Every snowflake that falls onto a heart

    Becomes a birthmark. Beside the fireplace, I stand

    & write, like a heart falling vertically on a winter night.

    Then it snows with a greater tempo, snowstorm

    Is the syntax that I like more.

    Until the snow-ish ring grows into my

    Finger joint. (As white as a touch: whitens

    Into a bunch of names so-much-alike-flowers.)

  • Accent

     

    I pronounce it as river as snow as melting riverbanks flushed by tears.
    I pronounce it as storms as thick black clouds covering as flocks of thousands crows darkness and light surging underneath.
    I pronounce it as freedom as goodness as discomfort as chaos as passion as pain as hope as sin as all irreversible wanting burning scarletly.
    I pronounce it as knives as bullets as toxins as cures so much alike to drugs as blades bounded with healings.

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