Wei Tai Ting-III
Sundial
My thoughts unspool
shadows of trees
Lazily shifting
across the grass
Stealing their sun
spinning slowly
And rooted
to the same
Bronzed trunk
slightly rising
Straight and hard
an accusing finger
Pointed firm
for forgetting
The thin film
of your voice
Your face angled
the way a line
Cuts a plane
One point
Anchoring
darkness
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