Floating on a river of fire
sitting in a cooking vessel
you were invoking the rain god.
Your hollow words had holiness
of unmeaning.
The sky opens the third eye.
Are you going to offer your
tongue to a footwear
of a proxy blood?
As a hymn to goddess of wealth,
sugar is thrown out of window
and yellow rice dances before a mirror.
And here I bleed silently
for the shooting star*
who could not conceive.
*A kind of primrose whose purple flowere have
backward curving petals hanging down. The
flowers move skyward on slender stems
turning their face upward after fertilization.
