My wren soul When perched on the top Of your patina greened Buddha's beatific smile, Bobs its tail up and down In hunger, in pleasure.

Then the wind comes And the tent's canvas, Which your lips form, Begins to flap.

This expansive washerwoman Smile grabs my sullied body From crowds of other dirty Garments, beats it clean On a rock by the water, And leaves it to dry On the green meadow, Turned inside out!

2004:01:06 11:00 Atlanta