His eyes black fruit
Frozen until she finds
the onyx shoes of her will.

She is wind, smoke, leaves,
A white shape, light and restless,
Put between my days and nights—
Between me and my grave.

This, my love—
She whom I carry
As a bell carries its tongue.
This, my love—
She who makes my days
A ride in barren fields
That have rich crops
After I pass.

I know why you laugh
As if you were white water tumbling
into a Chinese lake
Around which night has spun shadows