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The river is high. I’d love to smoke pot
with the river. I’d love it if rain
sat at my table and told me what it’s like
to lick Edith Piaf’s grave. I go along thinking
I’m separate from trash day
and the weird hairdo my cat wakes up with
but I am of the avalanche
as much as I am its tambourine.
The river is crashing against my…
... tracing a process of translation over a thousand years
A girl picking lotuses
in Ruoye Stream
laughs and chats with someone
hidden by the flowers.
The sun shines her fresh rouge
clear down to watery depths;
The breeze lifts her scented sleeves
into an open sky.