Bamboo shoots in a blue pot, tea steeping
in a tall cup with painted koi on the side.
Outside my window, the cat stalks a sparrow,
but is too tender-hearted to lunge.
Even with your hastily scrawled note still
on the table, it is hard for me to believe
you are the woman in that poem who made
love to her husband again and again so he
would sleep deeply and she could slip
away to meet the young fisherman barefoot
in pure, sweet water, the lures he is famous
for pinned to his open shirt.