After lunch, some poems. Wild ember,
isn't it pleasant to sprawl on this grass
at my insistence, dropping the knife
for pushing the rice plugs into mud with,
eyes blue smears in summer,
two holidays from service?
No question's a dumb question:
Is it right for us to sit here and scratch
on the college's monuments
crude shapes over founders' names?
At noon the ardent moonbeams
all disbelieve in moon, recalcitrant master
At last gone to rest in the world
of crowns and kerchiefs, of colleges
persisting in the sun. The bride who made
your crying face will later make it better;
Set of curls, put down your labor,
the poem's subtle structure, grass
sustaining green. It's after lunch
in summer, summer doesn't need a hero
the malady of heroes: to always be complete.