You can only hunker down so long & then the wind dies
or rushes on to some other place to do its damage
& all that time you've been huddled there together
holding your breath, hoping against
wildest hope that up aboveground
nothing you love has been
hoping with a deep longing
the wind has cleared
the air &
Tu Fu, "Thoughts While Traveling at Night"
There’s a wind in the grass—
Is there here
a boat’s mast claiming my lonely night too?
I see the stars
can’t be called hanged, exactly,
just hanging down,
not over emptiness, but honest ground,
the moon trying the black skin of this river, black corpse...
But, even plainer—
I wonder if these words, my words,
will ever bring me fame.
I have my age, my injuries. They limit me.
I’m like some spook bird
I know, solo and roped between
where rotting happens and a sky.