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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