A toenail clipping floating in a toilet bowl
like a crescent moon reflected in water,

beauty is quiet and self-conscious.

A character in a novel
sits on the toilet. 

Sometimes for forever.

Speaking of which,
where does the shit of a billion people go?

Back into the countryside.

In my country, where a man wheels
a cart of mud, and with his gray felt cap bends down
to examine the small acorns.

I squatted over a toilet
until I shit a cloud out into a pure blue sky.