tracing the coastline of the island
jumping from boulder to boulder
past old Chinese men picking seaweed
that’s washed up on the shore
i scramble over a rocky beach,
stones big as my fist
rubbed smooth by the tide
i should not have worn flipflops today...
i've stopped writing poetry in the last few years because i always start off somewhat serious, and then give up halfway through and goof off. one day the old asian poets will rise from their graves to shake their fists at me and what i've done to their art.
