I hide in crawdad shells. Needles grin
and nails puncture the pier. Which way
does the moss grow again? Towards the sun-bloom
young egrets preen. Soot falls in, cloaks over
my hair. Yesterday was the first morning
I felt without touch. Today, wind is a symptom.
I hope the monsoon hears the butterfly-strokes
in my stomach. Suddenly, yolks of hurricanes hurdle
towards mainland. Everything howls with the hot summer.