A Teahouse, Maokong
There are silk pillows,
milk-pale stepping stones,
and fish whose flesh blends
with the rocks; a slow
flock swifts back and lies,
dwelling, spent under a
glass floor, sun-florid in
the steam of tea. (Or is it
perhaps that there are no
fish, only rocks, and in this
memory of many years
past I can no longer tell
the difference?) Fish, rocks,
little jade-green cups; the
fish might well be formed
from warm, still-swaying
leaves, which swim gently
in the chipped blue pot.