It was

all those years of fending alone for yourself 
and those in your shared orbit. How to think 
of this time other than the first in a set of tiles 
clicking-clicking into place on a flocked tablecloth, 
raising them then looking for paired winds, strings 
of coins, plums and green stalks of bamboo? If 
you draw a flower, you must match it to its season. 
You mustn't breathe a word of what you wish for, 
not even to the glass in your hand. Press a cold
cloth with a drop of camphor to your temples 
when the ache becomes almost unbearable. 
Run a trickle of water across your wrists. 
Someone always shakes the dice again 
and throws them down: a dare, a design.