First shoes in the moon’s bamboo garden were illuminated upward with each footfall. Someone to see the cracked mask lady. The wind had stitched patterns into world objects and glowblue animals were hiding in the reeds. Robed in a red robe, rough eternal skin, cutting rocks with a fingernail: she called out:
"First visitor, whose land is this land? and it is not mine, and its owner is unknown: when ripped souls drift by I mend them, and I keep company with the stars; and I am sustained; and you may leave now, having seen me, to tell all that I am real."
Still Eating Oranges