Be a Poet Anew

At the tail end of the century

the big earth bounces,

people busy as monkeys up a tree.

Yet my two hands

float idle in China.

The desktop and a breeze, both

the pure white texture of good paper.

In my house alone

I make my meaning.

I wash rice,

and the milky rinsewater drips on my paper.

The melon shrieks

at new-grown fingers.

Past the window, sunlight bears its stab wounds.

All over heaven shifts cold snow.

Each day, early to late,

my door’s shut tight.

Sunlight hangs at the necessary angle.

In this city, someone says,

lives a layabout.

Squeeze four walls

between two small panes

and the world self-ignites.

Silent butterflies flitter everywhere.

All things leak imperceptibly.

From every side, I predict

the faintest trembling of a grassblade,

without looking

without touching

without hearing.

Each day, a few written words

like knives

slice open the orange, spurting its juice.

Let bands of blue light

enter an unspoken world.

The threads of my dense, silky luster

are invisible.

I dwell in this city,

soundless and a poet.