Skip to content

Wei Tai Ting-III





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