on watching li po engaged in forms
wrapped in daffodils
against a pale crescent moon,
a crane dances
into night, turning on tongues of
wind,
his body wet with rain.
the sky ravaged and torn loves
his soul dearly
(as do i).
seven stars into nine moons.
twisted talon into crashing wings.
his spirit turns in motions, his body
something less
something more
than physical.
i would kiss him, but my lips tremble.
i would touch him, but my hands could not hold
his body is like the wind, laughing and unafraid.
aggressive crane into five swords twisting into
fire and rivers.
body shivering as the wind rhythmically rocks his body
among invisible lovers.
his hair clings to his back and forehead
as his qi is lost in the silence of in between.
he returns to this world laughing
and offers me tea.
i grin and accept.
ginseng root.
and no sugar.
