To a Nun Buoy

On the clear storm season nights

crimson pulses through dusty glass panes

and a part of me breathes to your beat.

On the mild season nights, the firework nights,

when the maple has filled the gaps,

I can only find you from the point

where the granite is still sun-warmed.

Looking back,

you cast the leaves in warm glow.


Red Right Returning

red right

red light

I am returning.