We’re confused as lovers always are.
You walk in and out among the confusions,
unaffected, but anyone trying to follow you
will be confused.



Every day, this pain. Either you’re numb
or you don’t understand love.
I write out my love story.
You see the writing, but you don’t read it.



The sun coming up brings clear wine-air.
Being sober is not living.
Listen to the longing of a stringless harp.
Stand watch over this burning.



You come closer, though you never left.
Water flows, and the stream stays full.
You are a bag of musk. We are the fragrance.
Is musk ever separated from its scent?