From a book called Hard Freight.
A little six-line poem called Chinoiserie.
Why not?
The mouths of the ginger bloom slide
open, the willows drag their knuckles across the earth;
Each year has its fields that no one tends.
Our days, unlike the long gasps of the wind, stay half in love
with the rushes, and half with the water reeds.
Outside the body, all things are encumbrances.