Huế is not autumn in Paris.
Who cowers, entering the western gates, dressed for a king?
No cabinet’s armory fails our Forbidden City.
At thirteen, the boy-king paces unaware in his peony garden.
I have no voice in that, but regarding autumn, scrap my wedding tape.
Đai holds out a fort so long for memories cast.
Simply, I sense our fate in twelve dissimilar ways.
on my wedding night.
Though, who’s counting?
Grand is she
drying herbs on a line.
near the fort
in our red carriage, red
shirt and crown?
many golden arrows? Glory
to this heart
Photograph by Michael Howarth (2023)