Desmond Kon Zhicheng-Mingdé


Grenouille Bleue

 

Maybe between shouts
an urging, stress of weather
like a fissure, an impasse.
Maybe a blanket?

A coat and towel too.
For the draftsman howling
at the sky, and angels
through the sugar maple.

Wading monastics
washing muslin robes.
Stalk of lemongrass in hand;
raw hemp around ankles.

Twelve shoes tethered,
laced into a bouquet —
quiet love seating itself,
of moonstone and a dirt road.

Have the bluebells
turned cerulean? At sundown,
an emphatic stress. Of hope,
our soft bundle of ballads.







 

 


 


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