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

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:

Wake up

with dry skin

& wet heart.

It’s hard to sleep

with thunder tears.

Moon melts

into a drop of tear

– salty darkness.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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)

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.

We exchange

Our

mires and cliffs

via

fictional

hugs, breaths, sleeps and

strokes.

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.