BAY WOMAN

Moss stretches across her thin legs,

she comes into a raindrop from the right.

I'm on the raindrop's left

being swept into cigarettes by black clouds.

The coldfront of absorption slows time.

She steps on the flashing cotton inside

the raindrop, the old mountain neighborhood

in the soft skin, a rustling vein

wriggling together, from leather boots

toward the Tomb Cleaning Festival butt line:

in the raindrop's magic mirror

I've only one second, a single second.

Drink up her damp body,

from that deer leg in the street.

Suddenly it flows backward to my lungs,

the vast white field blossoms into a sea of ginger lilies.