White silk of Chi
newly ripped from me,
pure, uncut, an icy
pond, from which we
made a fan delight,
a shining moon, a
perfect (w)hole.
In out it flutters
from sleeves to
breast, bird’s sweet
breezes. Always I
dread fall’s fall,
warm’s dying in cold’s
hold. Then you’ll
stuff it in some
box—the way your
love left midway.
