R) Kaolin

From where I perch, in the willow-pattern,
afternoon blue, you could be bone-china;
the dip in your back like the slope
of a porcelain spoon.

Chopsticks in your bird's nest
pick at the noodles of my cool, and as you turn,
a swallow escapes,
hand-painted on your belly's pale plate,

a solitary indecipherable character
on your soft bamboo, your smooth,
breathing paper; it rises, lost
in the curving, oriental sky;

and on your snowcapped shoulders
my shirt is your cheongsam.