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Grief looks orange on sea waves,
What walking makes them seem.

That bodies are interchangeable
Is figure of speech on the waves.

There is no old wind under the door
But the old with a wind
in their eyes,
Who have a wind in their
old bodies.

We rain elegies directly on city’s
sorrows
They that dry up with the funeral
flowers
And suns everywhere rise usual
on Mondays.

Darkness marks out the disc moon
Like a Frisbee lost in the vague sky.

The “I”s seem lost in this confusion,
Having forgot their souls on bones.

The body sits in a night curfew
So body will exist within itself.

Lost poetry is found in a virus,
Such miracle to find in the old

To mutate to yet another strain
Until we exhaust Greek letters.

We call virus a Chinese
guest
Our history’s Chinese
traveler.

We wear masks on our
words.
Mouths are mountain
passes.

A liver has no black humor.
A life has three four hours
In a liver to live its humour.

Three or more is not sure.
God is still evaluating data.
God has no yellow humour.

I am mixed up with a Neruda
In a deep well of other beings.

My old moon drops in a well
As my single dream upholds

A pail dropped on its stillness,
With childhood’s moon there.

Unhappy man has to swat a fly
And also brush a buzzing wing.

I wonder why he is not like me
And leave me alone on mango

A happy fly, with song on wing.
I am a happy fly, if I live or I die.

(after William Blake’s poem The Fly)

Time’s arrow takes forward dreams.
Death will come and close the eyes,

Take her off frame in fire and stone.
The aunt will be an abrasion off life.

Death will come soon to close eyes.
Oil lamp will light them at the head.