I am learning to bend.
Teaching myself hand tricks and fake smiles
over blossoming moons of rice.
These mean nothing, of course,
they are only refractions.
Do you catch my meaning?
These rice bowls are empty,
and beautifully so.
Let us feast on the stars without regrets,
without space or heaven's interference.
We can be the air you breathe,
and the flowerscents you weave.
If you allow, I will be
your feather to write apon the ground.