wet shore hand

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其一：

Holocaust

The lotus grows like it’s going to die tomorrow.

Standing on the edge of the lake, embarrassed. The barrels are empty.

The clenched fist can only smash the reflective red and then open up

Do impressions bloom better with flowers you don’t recognize?

Thanks to the mornings that give us shoulders

Giving full bright shells and aroma

I imagine you, waving in the water.

Gloomy branches dry and brittle as organs

The dewdrops that make the first ripples slide off the leaves.

Green, always occupying the view and the pavilion

The lotus is a crisp castle on a lake

The raspy birdsong at the water’s edge instantly becomes a bright simile

Every time you open it, there’s this one inside

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Its two:

Watercress

There’s a man whose heartbeat is entwined with the watercress.

His hand. A handful of sand.

He suffers from the blue delusion.

Concern for daily chores and unconscious flow

The sea environment is disturbed and the eye follows the moon’s gravity

Different shades of day and night Seasonal raging

I’m thinking of a green flower branch that’s so blue it doesn’t look right.

The branches always remind him of new strawberry blossoms in early spring.

Coriander on the ridge Iris orchid Pear blossom near the wheat

Thanks to vegetable gardens and cat hair, spring willows grow on bald heads.

Water plants and heartbeats tangled together look like wire balls