I pass the public bench


Opening the untouchable enclosure of shut-in selving is like a death, though sometimes the death is unnoticed, like a gentle wooing, and imperceptibly one comes alive again. G&B 223


I pass the public bench__neat stack of clothes under it

the bench itself empty__the mud’s hot glare and rapid


rippling of the neap tide__a flapping egret spins

in stenciling sun (Matisse)__and that only begins


to make sense as wen__Tu Fu mind reflects

the meandering of the flow__there are no subtexts


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