At day’s closing, I felt a discomfort within
So I drove alone, ascending an ancient plain
Through autumn’s veil, unfolds a neon sea
And I searched miles and miles for its edge

All the words unspoken,
were wrapped in conceits
******* in scarlet twines
Sealed well
Like golden joineries
or bamboo’s crease
Inside, two’s secrets

Unwrap each carefully
Press your ear to hear:
Wind, memories,
And Peach Blossom Spring

A *******’s son, born in the Five Grains Field
he first learned to crawl on the yellow earth
where mint and sorghum thrived side by side
then he learned to walk on ancient dikes
learned to run among wild southern geese
he learned to rein his granduncle's mule
       (it leads him through those trackless fields)
But he always loved running on millet stalks
       (when grass bends under his weight) and
through and through the mountains until
his feet scraped by uneven stones until
they bleed through the earth he stumps until
his mother lured him with supper's warmth:
        —until life was siphoned by rattles and snarls
of brutish machines and a confusing tongue
and men chanting to the flags of the Rising Sun
"One question is all I ask, lusterless swain,
where do the men sleep when the sun sets?"
No words were spoken, and no more shall
when the bayonet pierced between his lips
—a soft tongue dropped with untethered flesh
When invaders aimed at his thatched hut
—where he first cried and searched for his father
where his grandfather died and his mother born—
he turned around and ran (no matter shelling
or the swooshing bullets- nor the callous fire!)
to find that old mule brayed for his master
they ran into the sorghums, the blue mist--
vanished in silence and mint's vinous scent
I never learned that child who loved running
was also me: in ten-thousand kinds of winds
that blew through the endless yellow earth
my great grandmother's mother loved a bandit
and gave him a place by her bedside hearth
Many years later a swain will roam the same fields
to see that unmarked grave, and blossoming sorghums.

Plum rain halts, river's still, sails fall
Isle's near, smoke's clear, wild **** soughs
By the dock, fishermen sing an old tune
I am home, far from Land of Shu

A dream, a song, two scores fly by
In a monk's thatched hut, I hear
the rain impinges upon the earth

A song of new lyrics, a cup of wine
Yesteryear's arbor, old season's weather
When will the sun once more shine?

In a dream dreary the flowers fall
In garden's depth and winding heap
Only the swallow's songs do I retrace
Alone on the fragrant path, I pace.

I.
Her blade was quenched in limestone brine
Its sable haft laced with golden thread.
Atop the palace walls, she treads lightly
In her robe woven thin as cicada's wing

II.
When I saw his children past the silken screen
again-- from atop the cedar crossbeam--perhaps
I should lightly retreat but I lingered still:
until he saw silver ribbons that tied my hair
He (I had thought) unlike those lives I severed  
can live to tomorrow (but our gaze had locked!)

III.
A swing, a flash, an unfelt wound-- she moves
with Gansui's fury, and Chunjun's spirit
And softly these shattered visages laid to
a dreamless rest upon her gracious touch.

Perchance I loved thee half as much
         (not as much as you wished)
as I loved the worldlings.
'Tis curious to think-- I love those who art
not fair nor bright (compared to thee).

But never meant, thou and I, share the same
          Weltanschauung (never will we).
I, forsooth, believed in eternity
and thou in our certain demise.

For thou spake of ice and fire (in your dreams
          they often appear)-- that potent
elements-- wilt end our world,
wherein we once loved.

Shall thy dreams ordained to foretell our end,
          (that the world and all within--
perish between extremities)
then my love for thee hereon, forever suspends

I.
In cold rains cicadas shrill,
red leaves shaking, drearily still.
At the Hour of Great Waste (sky’s sun-ray laced)
A hundred Li’s away from Tongguan’s lofty gates
We part our ways amongst the barren hills

II.
When I plucked flowers from my crisscrossed hair,
(they were still blooming like yesteryear’s pear)
Your carriage passed by my garden, whips lashed
on your steeds (in golden halters they're restrained).

My Lord you were young, without fear or suspicion,
Could still dance and swirl, or play jewelled zither
I (too young to be your lady) knew not what sorrow is
Had only drank tender tea, picked from last pentad.

III.
Fifty strings on zither play in vain
Thunder cloud brings a sudden rain
At the hour Ying and Yang entwined
Tears rolling, my sight they blind.

Death’s visit is the warmest—
An unbidden guest—entered the room
Quite gently He sat at my bedside—
A close quarter few had come—
Then I followed His lead— his serrated fingers
Never asked where he would take me
For I knew His realm well enough
To walk past all the strange shadows

Vengeance hangs the tallest
From the toughest branch
I reach past mercy and victory
To pluck it— effortlessly

It looks just as tempting
As any other fruit
It’s a little poisonous
But tastes— the sweetest

“I know that summer ends when my mustards die,”
It’s a secret I was told that belongs to the seasons.
Few alive know of how to even predict weathers:
“Walk you carefully to the edge of a tree’s shadow
Then raise your hand high above the ground
look at the sun until your eyes line up with it—“
He explained to me like an old mathematician
So occupied my father seemed with his calculations
Sometimes just to prove to his neighbors and friends
that tomorrow’s rain comes exactly at three p.m.
Those jagged hands waving up and down
Like a weather vane looking for wind’s direction
I was only a young boy or so I vaguely remembered
When he called me home earlier than he usually did
The seven years old boy cried, refused to listen
To his fathers’ nonsense about a coming ice storm.
“I saved you at the rightful age so you can play on
Or else I would lose you before you grow old
In the shelling hailstones of that one July afternoon.”
He brought this story up to us every single December
His magic in telling the weather hasn’t changed since
It’s me who began to slowly forget all his gesticulating
Under the searing sun while I stared and listened
To him rambling quietly that a rain should come soon.

One spring day I remember
We stopped by the arbor,
Watched lotus flower bloom.

That day was brief and swift,
When sun set like molten gold,
We lost our way home.

Our boat ferried into lotus fields,
Sky turning somber and cold.

"Row the boat through!" I cried,
Startled herons and gulls flew.
​

Air soaked with yellow heat.
leaves shaking the dark-green dread,
Silence on the narrow street,
Where our fathers lost the battle,
There! The firing squad is loud
They cried to history and fear
They cried to death and uncertainty

Such villainous visage-
On a child’s face.
Eyes so innocent-
Yet a hideous look- flashes

“They are not one of us!”
He cries-
A thousand figures pointing
To the wrongfully judged-
He stands among them-
One of one thousand

On the unbesmirched hill,
Let's slide down the snowy *****.
In the warmth that wrapped the wild,
Home stood alone.

Do not remember past things that bring regret
Memories, caught between the unborn and dead
Perish and fade— all men are destined to forget

Byzantium sacked, Malacca discovered yet
The golden coffin buried deep at world’s end
Do not remember past things that bring regret

Around and around the monument of intellect
Raised the holy fire, like stars ascend
Burning (all men are destined to forget)

Paramount of new earth the oceans beset
Storms crush men racing to the ****** land
Forget, forget those things that bring regret

Aleppo, Nanjing, Warsaw. Nothing left to recollect
Of all things between the unborn and dead
Do not remember past things that bring regret

At day’s closing, the roads direct
Travelers to the mirage at horizon’s end
Do not remember past things that bring regret
Memories fade— all men are destined to forget.

Softly I ask the flower, eyes with tear:
“When will the winter leave?”
She speaks of silence,
And joins the northward wind

At the tunnel’s end,
I see the snow country.
Heavy bough bends
Then breaks abruptly.

January’s Sakura,
Stands in the court yard.
Sweet scent drifting,
To Honden’s guard.

Fourteen is Izu’s dancer.
Singing in Shinto’s garden.
Leaving a heart without answer,
For she askes of beauties olden.

Awake to snow’s calling
I hear the petals falling
The flower at midnight
Yet asleep

Our unfamiliar encounter
At the corner of the street
Clueless
stillness in gaze

This is where we first met
I remember
Stars overhead tangled
Like fate

You are my great undoing in the final act
Who reveal the secret murders committed
By me in the scene before. I, feel ashamed
hope that I can redeem myself,
Like protagonists always do in a fairy tale.

Alas! we are not in such a play- no,
the unhappy ending (for whatever you touch is spoiled)
was destined for me, to die, to sleep
in the dreamless slumber!
(Merciless is you, my darling; restless is my heart)

I must confess my sins (not those secrets you think
you have discovered) to the audience: I fear not
their judgement (my stage is the whole of a world)

You are my undoing (you have undone what I
have not yet done).