The Longing of Halves


Beneath a moonlit grass patch, a rose awaits

bloom in silence:

an image about to be born

an eyelid about to open.


Dewdrops, damp, settle on a blade like

a tear:

waiting to be unearthed,

to evaporate into the sky-stare,


and rejoin as rain flurries--

the water-need that

entombs us,

drowns noise in absence-liquid.


Crystal-clear nightriver

washes echoes elusive;

a sound erodes into

slippery halves

that, floating away,

lean in each other's direction.


The longing of gods.



The reason we love.




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