My beggar’s spirit and I are one.
We agree to leave
in the morning.
About the time the road begins to whine,
I remember the bottle hidden in the blankets.
We can’t turn back to the year of the dragon
where two treed men
might drop their webs over us,
so we brave the winding path
to the city of blood dancers.
We eat nothing, sing to the small dog
that might be a phantom.
A blossom in the room of my mind wilts slowly.
I cannot remember which coin
is our talisman.
Near the city gates, we join a masked procession
of incarcerated gods.
There is a small chance
we too will end up whistling.