Along the chilled chiseled rusticated ashlar
precipitation meets my cheek.

A gentle awakening as of a kiss from that universal lover unknown yet ever around and taken for granted.

Is the drop still whole when shǒu dāo’ed by the ulnar edge of a hand.

Tea drips down my throat. A drop of blood. Life drips the clock from edges of booked shelves.

Its mastery and peace remains; as eyes pass.

—animasuri’24