Chapter 22 Poetry

Poetry The great house to which I belong Only the table is left, around is a boundless swamp The bright moon illuminates me from different angles Dreams with fragile bones still stand In the distance, like the scaffolding that has not been dismantled And muddy footprints on white paper The fox that has been fed for many years waving red tail praise me, hurt me And of course you, sitting across from me Show off the sunny lightning in your palm Turned into dry wood, turned into ashes