I dance a torpid march around the urn
of coffee and cream.  I hear her fireside glow
of cool blue chatter; she brands my ears with burn.

Times past, I chiseled marches out of a churn
of consonance and dissonance.  On toe,
I dance a torpid march around the urn

of coffee and cream to see if I can earn
a praise of pleasantry from the worn foe
of cool, blue chatter.  She brands my ears with burn.

And as I age in confidence, I yearn
for applause to tug against past’s toll.  Though,
I dance a torpid march around the urn

of judgment, I am praying for a turn
in understanding, weeded, with love’s hoe,
of cool blue chatter.  She brands my ears with burn

as she, with listless eyebrows, rejects a fern
of peace.  I hear the ghastly caw of a crow.
I dance a plaintive march around the urn.
Of cool blue chatter, she brands my ears with burn.

-Tsai