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He is reclining like a river god on a rock
She is plucking a sweet olive branch from the moon palace
There is none of that sharp outline we think of as reality
A breeze drives wisps of fog across the pale moon
Like a thin wash of gray water color bleeding
Down into flat-topped fortune-telling plane trees
The joyous body chemistry bubble of youth
Breaks and we free-fall through the leaves
And when we land he is still reclining like a river god
And she is still waiting on the moon palace stairs
Poem Written in a Boat on the Wu River: Northern Song Dynasty, China (1592-1652)
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