by Tse Hao Guang 

The moon is pregnant in a starless sky
and the lake is pregnant with the full
figure of the moon. Still half-asleep, my

fingers find a muddy rock and pull
it out by the root. You prefer sticks
snapped by muddy fingers. The cool

breeze turns against the grass and flicks
insects from their hiding places in the soil.
We remain in place, but simple tricks

must run out sometime. The careful toil
of these clouds will not run out soon.
Even though the spore-filled fern is a coil

in time and the hungry fish a spoon,
the mirror-lake is an anchor for the moon.