Breath. My spirit. An exiled crane
the cold displays abandoned by the moon.
Far above, dawn splashes the basaltic rim.
I dream of simple pleasures: a bowl
of steamed noodles in Guangzhou. The click
of many chopsticks when rain gutters the road.
Each day for months now like the last:
this water freezing my hands
as I sift sand and gravel for gold,
the river’s thunder
a troubling rumble within the temple.
I who have always known the names
of things—this tree or that stone,
the strange four-legged creature
scampering among the rocks—have become
a straw man. Unable to speak the future.
Breath, you evaporate while I shiver.
Vacate this crabbed husk.
Afraid of the yellow bolt
that comes to steal the living.
