That day bled into rain,
trees dripped with mist
in the morning,
our drapes gathered back
to a room thick with quiet,
light shallow as leaves
in this dimmed work.
It's on the wall still:
blued pagodas, muted
willows above the boat
stitched onto water.
There's no hurrying
over the grey bridge
where a man stands.
Hours picked threads
set stiff within frames,
layers lapped out
to unnatural flowers.
No one goes anywhere.
There is grey, slaked blue,
the gone tone of a gone sun.
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