After Lu Yu by Nico Alvarado

Rain. A cocoon          
     come un-
done. Threads drift
     across the end
of night & brush
     the earth awhile, then
stone arrows fall.
     Inside, funny early
morning dreams as rays
     of light pierce
the sleeping net & sweet
     grass steams
spring clothes slung
     over the brass stove.
From nowhere
     a silence & I
hear out on the pond
     fish whip
their tailfins & slip
     down the spill-
way to where
     swallows fool
around—flirting, flitting
     out & turning
back—just because
     they can. Take
a look. Rain-shaken
     loose petals cover
everything, but all
     I can do is to stare
at the sodden
     blossoms still
clinging to
     that branch,
smearing its length
     red ochre.