Are the deities in the mountains
having a feast of peaches
as I burn the midnight oil by the curtains?
Suddenly flew by is the chalk of my teacher's
when I am only having a gander
at her black twin tresses
Wulin is in uproar over the Dragon Saber
but lore of an inch of time is gold laces
my ear and flips out from the other
From their quarreling voices
I hide in invented worlds under the table
but not from goose egg and cane lashes
To battles, my green plastic soldiers march
as I yearn to grow up in every March.
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