I’m living in a Chinese painting


life in the clouds that shroud a rainforest mountain is languid life
all sound is muffled by mist; even birdcall echoes as from afar
mold and mushrooms thrive

keeping the cottage and its contents dry is impossible
my paintings warp and ripple, my books buckle

suchness is this damp world dripping
mists shrouding
then scrolling back

I’m living in a Chinese painting …

and here, here
the vast no-thing called I
knows no damp or dry