Parading

ghosts leave: retinal

So often I would itch

while the world tilts

Here is a map of our country:

Which of you knows how not to part the pebble on the beach from its colors?

come and go while I stay gripped to pine and the sugar of existence runs through

From now on,

flinging itself forth in winter

As a sandy track-rut changes when called a Silk Road:

Oh swirling petals, all living things are contingent,