MOON

Night rises, and the undying moon resumes

its undulance on lakes, ponds; like narcissus

among lotus leaves, unashamed

beholding itself once more, once more

seeing all its choices: in the city of Bianliang

those four wells beside the house of Wang Wei,

pumping out like photoshops a dozen

limpid images, faxed to Li Bai, Du Fu,

Du Mu, Li Shangyin.

For millennia, the ageless moon’s cast

countless reflections, refractions,

itself a hall of folding mirrors. Like the fig,

monosexual, reproducing in silence,

till the great bald eye brims over,

no room for rain or sunlight.

For the sun, who loves it without hate?

The moon alone favors poets,

as they favor it. E. E. Cummings in China,

of course Su Shi. To hell with intellectuals

roaming the night by candle, throwing stones

shattering the watery bridegroom of the sky, where lovers

long to swim through moonlit nights. Love free as Mozi

loved the boy lifting festive lanterns.

Love the woman lighting the incense pot,

the man eating water chestnuts,

the bookworms drinking and dancing.

Love water beads, lotus leaves,

washbasins, wooden buckets,

love all the round reunions.