Untitled: Leaves - Featured at OCADU's Moving Poetry Installation 2024

The leaves that fall are the leaves that leave,

And the leaves that fly are the leaves that left.

The leaf I pressed between pages to die,

Is from our tree that had already dried.

Like paint, like pen, like ink and good men,

It stained and maimed the pages I kept,

I picked myself up from the grass and I left,

to seek the leaf of a tearful bamboo.

I picked it off before it fell and it flew,

I had killed it, I knew,

But as I couldn’t pick you

picking leaves would have to do.