Poetry

On the balcony of the tower I play my flute and watch The Spring rain. I wonder If I ever Will go home and see The tide bore In Chekiang River again. Straw sandals, an old Begging bowl, nobody Knows me. On how many Bridges have I trampled The fallen cherry blossoms?      — Su Man…

Suddenly there she was between us on the bed, the one third party and broken off relation I would least like to see share in our menage. Tight-lipped and glaring, she waits for me to do the introducing, own up to an old association, and with hanging head advise you not to be surprised by…

Looking at his woman of the moment, He congratulates himself on his good taste. Her breasts, lips, legs are a moving sight, Worthy of this investment — Dinner out. Providing similar sustenance, he offers his own      substantial smile, A little work of art, Always a breath-taker. To himself he drinks a toast. Were he to…

Through the window the moon shone on the table so hard We once in a while shielded our eyes While we told from our lives stories that broke small Bones in our toes, sent you crying to another room Only to return to tell something that popped my nipple Across the table, making a sudden…

the night is slow a large snail pulled on a string by the sun on its back it carries all that has been lost as it goes past your house you strap everything in place you retrieve a dusty crate from the rafters of your attic it is empty things are as they should be…

From where they return is not known: mouths of rivers seethe with their fever. Pilate’s finger bowl is waiting to welcome; fruit can be found in anything, even death. Hands are speaking softer than our voices. Your body lies like braille in the dark. There are components that make up a sentence. Call everything a…

You are sad. You are leaning down on your sadness like the rain is trying to do to us but we are in the house. You are watching the water fall so easily from the tap, you are whizzing through the dishes, you are a man sweating in the next room in a few minutes…

Frontiers are explored in a mirror; sharks contained in their appetite. The skin occludes all but the pen, harvesting love from any field. The clock is a compass leading to the corridors of sleep. The borders that will be crossed occur as we sit alone in our rooms. An island is waiting with the promise…

I am writing my heart out here. In a kitchen, two towns away, my friend Fanny is doing likewise. She sits surrounded by her children like a patient plant. When we telephone each other the children come into our ears like static; stereo commotion: they cling to us like clay. When we sit down to…