In the Year of the Fig-Leaf Dragon,
in the Cave Beneath the Appleblossom Grove,
children suspended in chrysalises
fabricated from flowing water
spin slowly in a cave bisected by a river
a god’s low whistle chiseled
in the ancient gift of earth. Every snake
is an ouroboros, insensate, with scales
bright as mirrors. Every mirror is a convex
sphere. Every scale I finger on the piano
returns to me, from the other, in the shape of
a memory suspended in a cocoon.… Read the rest