by Roger B Rueda
They dawdle like a soft black bench someone has cast off in the rice field.
Their tone of voice has ancient lilts and synchronisation.
They would not kiss you for a dialogue about the characterm the oblique,
Their longing grief is expressed by standing at a standtill.
Under their own steam is their skill.
\For them it is an earthly travail which, for the moment,
they stoop to continue spinning.
They traipse along outer reaches of the countryside continually,
from the moorings to ponds, and peacock on cards
wreathed in flowers considerately.
Their countenance gawk into the vague shadows.
They jiggle their heads like slothful mechanism,
mutely in favour of themselves.