I turn this green hexagonal tile with 
a blue dragonfly, but what is it I am turning?
The vertical scroll on the far wall 

has seven characters that roughly translate,
“the son's reflection on the Yangtze River 
is ten thousand miles of gold.” A Japanese 

calligrapher drew these Chinese characters 
in the 1890’s, but who knows the circumstances 
of the event? I graze the crackled paper, 

recognize a moment ready to scrape into flame; 
gaze at ceiling beams from Las Trampas, 
at Peñasco floorboards softened with lye.

Along the wall on a pedestal, a gold-leafed 
male and female figure join in sexual embrace.
Hours earlier, my hands held your hips, 

your breasts brushed my chest. I close 
my eyes, feel how in the circumference 
of a circle the beginning and end have no end.