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Two Centuries
The day divides into two centuries
While I wait in the rose garden,
looking at unborn roses.
The rain has no wetness in it
And the old man in the story
Has reached his native land;
But the journey is not over.
Where does it end?
I'm sorry the moth-child
does not know it
and so crawls upwards of a twig
Pausing delicately over a thorn;
Sways its fleshy head
into the edge of a fat leaf.
The first century
was when I woke up in the morning