a small watercolor paints itself on the lowest point of my coffee spoon
the rooster mug orders me—leave rings on the wood. don’t you desire permanence?
i wonder why the chinese are trying to reach me through poetry
should i go home and read my river stained chinese zen poetry book?
the one that bathed with me on independence day three years ago
when i fell in a hidden hole before fishing in the afternoon sweat-caked thigh july sun
hours after i had washed my coffee spoon from the muggy, effortless morning