Kenneth Pobo		TU FU LAZES   in a chaise lounge, looks glum, says he misses Li Po, gone again, and last time four centuries   blew apart like broken red mums before they reunited.  I bring pretzels, trot off for more wine.  Through the kitchen window, I watch him watching butterflies on the buddleia.   He’s not smiling, exactly.  It’s deeper, like dusk slipping over some hidden creek.  He sits up, like he’s about to address the plant or the Monarchs, lies back.  I refill his Pinot Grigio.  We make up a song:   Pi-not Grigio, Pi-not Grigio, Butterfly and water flow.  I avoid   politics.  Why remind him of spoiled emperors and exile?  He pulls Death up like a hassock and plops his feet down, tells me don’t   worry so much—Leaves ache. Spring shivers in a cramped room ‘til the coldest winds stop blowing-- then out she comes, wearing a green silk blouse.  Grief cuts up worms, feeds young robins.		WHIPPED   cream    at the store whipped butter   whipped cashiers checking out    whipped customers   buying various whips