The planting

A sterile vase, a humble keep.
I provide just enough for you to live.

I shook you hard. Your warm fat hand
A handle to the dry

Leaf that I am. You took stage
On the soil of my palm,

Rooting the dark seed that they called
Abib. They would have my hands soaked

In the depth of the sanguine sea
In the names of my brethren.

Dale Chou
2012-06-01