I hear over in China
people break a willow branch
whenever they say goodbye.

My mind is no longer serene.
Late April and the willow,
already yellow, is broken

with snow. Roadside daffodils
are tearing their sleeves, but
lightly, with the semi confidence

of someone shrieking in a movie.
I eat popcorn like tiny pieces
of crumpled paper.

The words dissolve
on my tongue.
I know this world up and leaves

on a lacquered palanquin,
taking with it a splendor
I won’t see again.