The shape of afternoon:
tī kōuka billow brown,
blooming ice-cream cones
on an hourglass sky
a trickle in time, when
a bumblebee unclasps
clover, blinks into foxglove
udders and disappears
sleeps a hundred years
in sherbet stippled
flowers nodding their
secret campanology
as the garden dons its moss-
stitched robe, shade
stretching with a yawn
across this meanwhile
until a porcelain cup
on the sill prints
an absent rose, the ruru cry
of a rising moon.
