Leaving Taichung Station

  

Beneath the Milky Green Sun

 iii

the first pastis of the year lingers like a rash beneath the belt, yours was the first fossil dug under the balustrade where the mud beacons cloud and new year “I'm ready for a round of evening pétanque” your voice dispensations light, tongues lift an equestrian hoof-flying sense of nonsense stuck in our coat’s throat beneath the milky green sun as we left in a room where shadows cross into the afternoon roots, disrobe belief where each of us left alone watch the blank tulips limp on knees petal by petal grammar a numerology that falls into the arms of lost teenagers nibbling on each other’s heart one kernel at a time, the recalcitrant moon gnaws on the bicep of a tree arm, the lunar denture breaks haphazardly as nations blue the sky’s enshrined shroud, the bad luck on the back of genetics, rotten teeth and misplaced sleep of History, our lives pages in the books on a shelf when walked away from the grave, one name scampering at a time where revenants vine into shadow and earthstone

 

my love we flowered into yellow chalk of another tomorrow as the sun shivers, beneath a nun steps

author's note: this is the final part of the poem, that also takes its name from my book Beneath the Milky Green Sun