They dawdle like a soft black bench someone
has cast off in the rice field. Their tone
of voice has ancient lilts and synchronisation
we have to twist to grab.
They would not kiss you for a dialogue
about the character, the oblique, echinated psyche.
Their longing grief is expressed by standing at a standstill.
Under their own steam is their skill. For them it is
an earthly travail which, for the moment, they stoop
to continue spinning.
They traipse along outer reaches of the countryside
continually, from moorings to ponds,
and peacock on cards wreathed in flowers
considerately.
Their countenances gawk into the vague
shadows. They jiggle their heads like slothful
mechanism, mutely in favour with themselves.
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