There are sixteen stones in my stomach,
A stone for each year since you died;
Downstream some others had reason recovered
And found the cobbled cairn inside.
Weighing me down, Tuesday’s a river
Where weekly discretely I drown,
Floating oak arbours have me delivered
Away from the city, away from the towns
Where jasmine grapples verbena,
There’s satin wallpaper from Guangzhou,
A river weaves through brown patinas
Where peonies and bamboo grow;
Beside the ducks and nide of pheasants
Sixteen stones on a shoreline found,
The tourists missed my stranded presence,
Preserved in glass, no waking sound.