Yang Xiaobin

1. Blades   A blade sticks in a pane of glass. One blade. Bars the door. In its shadow another owl soars.   A blade’s voice is a woman leaping out of water   The sky has deep wounds Blades drop through the holes   Hanging gardens. Leaves of grass pared ...

The lighthouses lead the land into the sea to drown. When we throw cobblestones into the brain’s whirlpool we see it, far off, indiscernible between sand castles, a spectral shadow dropped from the night sky it blinks, sweeping over this decrepit century like the priest ...