Fronds 05/02/93

If a Chinese fan were dipped in honey
And slowly opened like the fingers of the dawn
And hung above the trees just like the sky
Would I be worshiping the sun?

If at the hour of the sickness of the flowers,
which caused the petals not to droop, but
taking flight, singular wing that's
veined and slim
it flies on fuel
of sunlight synthesized
would colored pigment rain,
bring dusk, mosquito nets, and air
overripe with fruit and pollen pods/

Am I the moon's best slave?

At the shattered mirror noon
a shard of sun ver-tic-a-li-
zes me-as-if I'm stretched upon a rack and paper thin
the blueness seems to stream away
breaking window after window
dusty glass dust in the dirt
the parching throat the steaming tar
the oasis my containment my mirage
but there is something to be said for a mirage
There is something to be said for a mirage
an illusory elusive honeyed fan

Am I nothing but a shade upon the ground/
Am I more than the shadow that I cast?