I feel a little hungry, but don't know
If I should eat something. Tonight autumn has already begun.
Perhaps, for you, this is dry information--
Volition and grief of a shattered drinking glass--
Maybe it’s as inconceivable as options to spare.
Just now, I draw open the window and stand before it.
The curtain grazes me, wanton and blithe.
Autumn bears wind,
Adornments half-hidden, partly concealed, from the eye,
Eyeing each other as we reap crops,
The crops we sowed alone, the wind-blown crops,
Arousing crops, flitting into view
Having lost one’s way with a fluid border.
Did Eve eat mango or an apple?
Fruit does not transfer,
Fruit makes women's lips ripen.
But I get hungry, when I’m loitering in the past.
I drape a floral tablecloth around my body,
Paper napkins line up to conceal my breasts,
I think: gazing at plums quenches thirst, sketching small cakes satisfies hunger.
In this harvest season nothing’s inconvenient.
Before I know it, my body’s covered in tears,
My tears have fallen into another’s hand, or
They lie in wait in my mouth.
September 1996, New Haven