Come and visit our garden at night,
when only the spirits abound.
The night sounds,
the quarter falls quiet,
the geckos call; the soft insects crawl.
Here all silence is:
the bare stillness
the light on a wall
grasping bird of paradise.
Immobile all.
Leaves, wind, the barest wisp of cloud
in full moon’s glow;
the spirits call silent
as deadly as the night.
We are lost, wayward,
east of the Mekong ;
look no further
and you will find us
with the spirits rejoicing.
Pull aside a awkward leaf
spread the vegetation to the side
and reveal now the spirit house
its full moon offerings
eaten by insects:
prowlers of the noonday sun.
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