Moss stretches across her thin legs,
she comes into a raindrop from the right.
I’m on the raindrop’s left
being swept into cigarettes by black clouds.
The coldfront of absorption slows time.
She steps on the flashing cotton inside
the raindrop, the old mountain neighborhood
in the soft skin, a rustling vein
wriggling together, from leather boots
toward the Tomb Cleaning Festival butt line:
in the raindrop’s magic mirror
I’ve only one second, a single second.
Drink up her damp body,
from that deer leg in the street.
Suddenly it flows backward to my lungs,
the vast white field blossoms into a sea of ginger lilies.
