ItвЂ™s a jade branch on the floor, broken in two, love,
Or a stain raised on the lapped grains of a suede glove.
ItвЂ™s the lace, blown by a strong breeze, of an old gown
With the cranes crying at night, lost in their long sound.
ItвЂ™s a vase made from the noon light in a closed place,
And it falls, shatters the sharp edge of a jewel case.
ItвЂ™s the Muse, mute with a shell clenched in her left hand,
A refrain deep in its coils, joined to the dead sand.