FULL MOON ON TOP OF A CHAMPAGNE PALM'S TIP

the lady has long hair
longer than what others wear
she earns a name
eyes slit like a bamboo scarred
with a knife
a wound which eyes dare not see
tearless are dawn,
she writes a poem inside a box
there is no hole where light leaks
tendrils cut, roots without land,
leaves of darkness,
but just the same the seed grows,

early morning she goes out from a door
i do not call it a house
it gives that sense of prison
but the warden is a friend
she smiles at you and then walks away.
she challenges you with that feeling that
you are never a part of what she boxes in.
and you are hurt and then you tell yourself
" i am busy too, and sorry i can't love you"