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FATHER’S BLUE & WHITE PORCELAIN
a small jar of night       a thousand frontiers carrying him
the sky of old age continues its kiln transmutation
continues arranging this pot plant       lamplight
a glazed hand       refines a blue cough
in his flesh he embroiders the fragile whiteness of posterity
turns around a thousand times       the little
room a snake’s stomach swallows the longest diameter of life
his night-long waking       like the sleep-talk of the whole world

awake and not looking at humans       not even waiting for
a cup of darkness tea       four walls softly slide up
a small iron table sinks into a venom-coated shaft
another red-hot circle sealing
his book      its unread wings tightly closed
how many bloomings and fadings of seventieth birthdays have been fondled
startling a container with petals that cannot be rubbed away
lying down       revealing again the birthmark of day