A NIGHT IN TURPAN

The summer night ripens

beneath a clustered grape arbor,

amid intricate notes of the

rubab

, and the snaps

of cameras—Americans, Japanese.

I catch

your drifting gaze.

Your foreign glance

deep and glistening

as the waters of the River Jiao

forked around the Gobi plateau,

gliding like separate years

that once again embrace.

Midnight beneath the arbor,

the weaving strings gone mute,

their maze of notes

strewn across the earth.

A Uighur scatters cool water in his shadow.

Another wipes his horseboots.

As I rinse, turning my head

in the tap’s cool Tian Shan stream,

I see a camel’s eyes, big,

half closed as in farewell,

digesting the whole desert.