Classic Poem

The black copper sun paled the hunter's cheeks.
The wing-flapping
pheasant,
a woman's footsteps
disappear into brambles,
tapping the life of a sleeping tree,
a woodpecker—at the isolation
of its vertical sound effect
reality pales.
The vagrancy of the heart that drinks secret honey
from the blindness of the universe
is a crooked ash stick.
In this empty roadside summer
the withered hips
decorate a shepherd's purse.
Whose drinking cup is this
crooked liquor bottle?
The acorns that burn at fire's dreams
warm the beggar's hat.
It's the twilight of
a bullfinch's wings.
What remains in the dark of the eye
is the cleft in the hedge
is the border of infinity.