Tree branches—
algae waves—above the rapids,
fresh grass and
Sure, I say,
and go with you,
to the garden, and we look
at the bamboo fence,
but through the reeds I
at you as an oxcart
rolls by.
              This is new,
this particular world—
the mill, and fence, and us,
old and new. How do we
want to see it,
the lit archipelago
bringing us here by
merely checking
the sturdiness of a fence
in a garden, here, in love,
between our faces
with afternoon light and
an oxcart pulling manure,
shaking lavender flowers.