he came and went back to what he truly is
white rush mat under heaven
ten steps for a single peck
he stole the very methods of sage
and used the wunnerful language of the day
when no one has even heard the poem yet
rambling between “loves” and “world”
emerging from the bush, cicadas don’t bite nor sting
He being called “hurry”, I being called “suddenly”
dreaming up wine of luxury, a vigorous girl,
a fighting cock for the yellow king
still pecking
in a miserable eating-place one end of string
every man is the first degree of love
his comrades speaking of chaste lives
a simple staff to hold, strong doves
land noisily, creator sings
soft expanse of sky
