How lovely it would be to live in a nation where
poetry put down insurrections. Then I might bang out
this stanza and go sue a wolf for stealing the moon.
As bare branches sway in cold;
as puddles turn to ice, then crack with ease;
as austere skies split and our telescopes,
trained on the great exuberance, glimpse our fate
of destruction by the sun, so I love you
On a drizzly morning walk I stopped to let a hearse go by,
its pitch-black paint sweating polish, and as I waited
for the procession I thought about who profits from tragedy,
the business of loss, and who profits no matter what,
We have as many homes to inhabit
as books to read, piling up in libraries,
coffee tables, bed stands—more than we
can make time to delight in as we draw
the single breath that is our delicate existence.
Amidst the glorious absurdity of it all he walked,
barefoot, on snow and fire, resolute-if-flinching,
and even now we see his footsteps of particle and
heat disappearing, alone-as-ever…
I was given twenty minutes to die. I had
no idea what to do. All around me, life
moved at a crawl, while within the chambers
of my body, nerves fired faster than I could dodge.
In Xinjiang, 7,000-miles
away, a morning sun, reflecting off the
glasses of early risers, the windshields
of commuters, is so bright as to redact
last night’s graffiti: Down with Xi.
At last I’m free to visit Church today;
What State dare silence this ecstatic hymn?
Hallelujah, O Lord, how oft we pray
to be free—and now we’re free! Yet we brim
I try on a suit to look handsome for the moon
ask the mirror what I’ve gained and what I’ve lost.
I mourn the death of those yet to die,
seek an urn to hold the ashes of what might have been.
Even the dead weep for our isolation;
in the pit of night, I dream of you at my
side, bleary-eyed, maskless. We stare
out the same window at the same desolation.