Poetry

With nothing but time
and the light of the Singer,
and no one to come now forever

It’s not new, this condition, just for awhile
kept deep
in the cortex of things imagined

Long I had heard of Lake Tung-t’ing 
And now at last I have climbed the tower.
Wu is to the east, and Chu to the south,

“Look up, my dear, at the dark
Constellations above.”
“Dark stars under green sky.

Or else a room, and in the room five voices speaking at once and what delicious babble “sherbet” and “velvet” and “purple” and “fragrant” and “loud”—