White

A girl protected by
the color white
plays in a meadow
watched by a

wolf.  The wolf's
instinctive fear
of any color it
can't smell keeps

it at bay.  The
girl sings a
song the wolf
wishes it could

eat in time
for death.

After Bei Dao

The years I
have spent
learning how
to waste my

life line up
on the fence
like birds.  I
climb a ladder,

dragging gravity
behind me.
In the evening
I listen to the

sound of fish
forgetting each other.

Reverse

Night hides its true
feelings in a lofty
idea about the
origin of ecstasy.

Skinnier than a
hairpin, taller than
the smallest tree,
morning's hidden

motive locks itself
up in the tomb
of the unknown
conscientious objector.

The rest is
history in reverse.

Threshold

Your silence tells
us everything we need
to know about
death (at whose

door we begin
standing at birth).
The costumes we
discard while waiting

accumulate in a
corner of the room
that consists entirely
of exits.  I awake

each morning with a
name I can't pronounce.

Urn
for Jerry

As I watch
the wind carry
your words away,
I can't help

remembering the
games we played
as children (and
still play today

in translated form).
We whittled your
body down,
forcing it to

fit in an
urn of our choosing.

Matter

When a word
is made flesh,
its letters tremble
in anticipation.

Angels lean back
into their armchairs
and hum.  The
milk of grammar

rains down from the
ceiling, preparing the
way for the poet
and his colleagues

in crime.  Matter
begins to matter.

(Still)

A wise old owl
eats what moves
at night as the
still moon looks

on.  Time tiptoes
through history's
dark room in
search of a

better ending.
We are too quick
to die when the
dropped hat hits

the floor, hoping
(still) for more.