These days, I don’t go outside.
They say, not so long ago, it was only
in the mulberry trees woman met man
for amorous purposes
during the harvest season.
I am an amateur, meaning I only do things
for sheer love of them. Hamlet
is no more than a tiny village
like the one I live in now.
I won’t go outside; my silkworms
have turned all the leaves into
a whiff of snow. Listen how
under the leafless boughs,
the sage and the drunk
sing of the moon and blossoms
pale as parasites. Listen how
the night boils each song inside
a cocoon. Don’t go when you crave the heat
of another man. Paradise opens only
in this somewhat freely