Sunday, July 23, 2017

someone missing flowers

it is morning five-fifteen eastern time
along the American seaboard
so there is no one to call from Taiwan
at five-fifteen after noon
no one there thinking of me
though she may be in bed awake
unable to sleep
birds here fly their dusk time patterns
in crystalline pre-typhoon air
on a poet’s bench facing the Han
thinking of her dark wakefulness
next to a snoring husband
as i strain to hear a singing bird
above the din of weekend traffic
heading home for Monday
she tries closing her eyes
relieved her tomorrow is Sunday
and does not see me squinting
to see a patch of wild pink flowers
no longer hugging
a blanched boulder
on the other side of the river
gone away in one day’s passing
as long shadows reach across the empty space
she does not think of someone missing flowers
somewhere along a Taichung river
on an island off the coast of China

july 23, 2017

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