forefinger
I picked up
a fallen leaf
and studied it thoughtfully.
The wrinkles on the withered leaves are deep.
The veins on the back are like blue veins.
There is no golden glory.
It's just a
Zhang Qing
gray face
. Driven by the cold current, it
curled up like an old busker
and wandered down the street
shivering
singing in a low voice
a dead leaf that no one understood
but it was a loss in my heart.