Modern poetry sits at home and writes poetry.

● Plants in my family.

Grow on the air conditioner

By the window.

Or in a row, through the medieval railings.

Stupid and soft-hearted.

Look at this jasmine flower.

● It is windy in the middle of the night.

The curtain woke up first.

Then I opened my eyes.

I was in the air and my bed began to spin.

Crickets sing in bel canto.

Fly-fly

● Poached eggs

I'm not talking about serving you three poached eggs in a white porcelain bowl.

It's not a bowl of brown sugar boiled eggs that I quickly sent after giving birth.

You just met me this morning.

In a jar

Draw eggs like Leonardo da Vinci

● Waiting for the moon

I am stewing soup in the kitchen.

It smells great.

The moon has not yet risen.

Otherwise, the pepper can be saved.

The chopped green onion has blossomed.

● Bamboo chopping board

Please forgive me for holding a knife.

I'll try to cut it lightly.

Plus the saliva I haven't swallowed for a long time

Tilt 45 degrees ...

Put the knife away and breathe in.

I chop, I chop, I chop, chop.

afterwards

I'll clean it up for you

Dry with a towel.

● Purple sand cup for soaking Pu 'er tea.

Nothing else matters.

Only soak puer

Better than Pu 'er.

These are two bamboos.

The breeze was blowing

Engraved in the dark time of the afternoon

Take a sip.

How can you not think of singing wine?

● Love sadness

I remember July in the transparent dim fire.

Walking leisurely, holding a banana from the south.

Just two strokes and the moth will turn to ashes.

Everyone will die.

If you miss the stone bridge, the wind will hold it up one by one.

Your deadly smile.

Birds in the valley are singing as if nothing had happened.

Who sits in the middle of July?

Burn yourself. ...

September reminds me of osmanthus.

Dear osmanthus

Please don't make me pick it again.