thought begins as small floral bowls : they hold greens—broccoli stalks,
chopped kale—against Chinese blue
very dark, with a greenish tint:
the way a silence falls to each side
of the knife’s stroke, the colors rhyme
softly and I think, I’ll miss this when I die.
This is how I enter appearances
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem