Thin fog, cloud paste. The day
is a stretch of longing.
Camphorous smoke rises
from the mouths of golden lions.
Once again, it is the Chongyang festival.
Jade pillow, curtain netting.
Midnight chill passes through the world.
Dusk. I am drunk by the fence
that lines the east,
my sleeves filled with smoke.
Don’t say I can’t be swept away.
When the west wind rolls up my curtain,
I am thinner than a yellow flower.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 17, Issue 4.
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