A trial

I had a picture in my mind—

The blue leaves, uncovered 
Themselves by the heat
(The papers twisted
And turned) like cheap poetry.

'Twas the dayflower: death by fire—

And I, the broken clock-tuned 
Executioner, magnanimously soft-hearted. 
The one who couldn't bear 
The fume-dried tears. The one
Who had to choose 
A different end:

Death by water. The rain-soaked utterance 
Drowned and screamed (silently)
Beneath the jellyfish clouds; under 
The trees; between the roots; crucified 
Through the centre by blades of 
Green—an indifferent denial 
Of relations.

Gentle, perhaps, 
But the words scattered nevertheless.

Dale Chou
2003-01-08