Letters In Four Seasons

1

The obverse of this instant is indeed my home.

It raises a white flag in another city.

Before the crack of dawn, floodgates of sleep

let out some trucks. Like dinosaurs, at a turn

they claw for something which is nothing.

I wake up.

        A green button tumbles off my body.

2

Our green button, the tiny residue of eternity.

Clouds, bricking Shanghai.

            A blueprint in my heart

awaits more brick and tile. I shift toward light.

There, a crane flashes for a second. Your letters

stand in a column of light at the center of the room, preening-

yes, no need for amnesty. Perception must be sought

inside bok choy, from pea shoots and winter melons.

Come, switch off obesity and machines-

            I'm deeply

drawn by contradictions on your body. Move over to the window.

Such a clear April, like light reflected off hard liquor.

Series of profound proportions shudder in street scenes.

Yes, my screams can't wake reality up. Yet your voice

catches the limits of my sight, I-

am you! I'm also drifting in this instant.

The construction site is going to explode. I'm right here

striking the gong to raise the alarm. Swim over here!

Catch this gong, it's everything you've missed.

3

I pick up a green button, and blow at it.

Start to busy myself with life.

            In the stillness,

a postman passing by the window thinks I'm my portrait- [End Page 69]

sometimes I sluggishly sprawl across the table,

both hands reaching into emptiness, like reaching into a pair of handcuffs.

Where, where is our precision?

            ...Green button.