Guitar strings plucked hard
Make hard songs. Strummed, though, they make
Sweetest melodies.

Starlight falls on her,
Trees make music too, as she
Dances me outside.

Fog hangs on the hill.
Time cannot make it descend
To the shining beach.

Reeds in the water
Split pushing currents apart
Like combing her hair.

Tapestries hang down
Covering unfriendly walls,
But I know the truth.

I sit on a hill
Watching a feast for one man.
Buddha, a fat guy.

Leaves seen through windows
Shine; like memories, in time
They will disappear.

Busy kitchen girl
Making food for us to eat,
Solace after sex.

Sun shines on pewter
Steam rises from the kettle
I sip my Earl Grey.