Poetry

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,

Snow whitens mountains westward and the forts of three cities,
Waters from the southern lakes flash on miles of bridge;
Wind and dust from sea to sea shut me from my brothers;

I never shall know
while I live, what it meant. . . .