My Picture: Near my apartment: Xinxiang, China.

Half eaten by the moon
and wrapped in cold sheets of rain.
Their eyeballs roll and hips sway,
and the dancing begins.
Always at the same time,
and without a blessing or leaf falling.

Music supersedes their days
on the long march, bellowing
to us all across a great distance.
A ritual that a poet can understand.
An existence that become endless,
and the power of preserving.