It's orange in the morning. The bugs bite
my feet and calves. The clouds move in a line
over the horizon, I open the book's spine
and reveal the binding. She is but a finite
representation of a god, I perform a rite,
recite a prayer and grow up like a vine
on the brown fence. Is it her blood or wine
that fills my body? I breathe into the white
of her skin and the luminous waxing Moon
appears. I form a cup out of both of my hands
to receive light, I taste the salt of skin
and smell her living. The cicada will soon
resound in the maple, swell its chorus and
exist among the world without a sin.
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