No Mess, More Fuss—No Fuss, Less Mess

Xu shi sheng bai.
This bare room’s bright.
Can you be drawn
To what is spare

And still not care
To be too pure?
Let the weeds grow
And the dust snare

Dust in its nets,
Flaked skin, hairs, rust.
Was that too gross?
You sweep too much.

You mow life down
To keep it square.
Could just live small,
Not pure at all.