A blade sticks in a pane of glass. One blade.
Bars the door.
In its shadow another owl
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 sunlight
Those are blades,
coming behind my footsteps
Blade over the lips. Chops
A shaft of light pierces my breathing
blood pours from the first dynasty
Two blades are eyes
penned in bars of light
Bones sprout in antiquity. Decorate antiquity.
are injected by fresh hands. Space
is uttered by bones
as is walking.
Bones walked through thousands of years
and passed it: where other bones
Tossed-out bones penetrate
A global family as resolute
as constellations, braced
immovably between holidays and funerals.
Some face archeology, face the radiant crumble
of culture in center exhibit.
Some escape into the flesh
piece together a human shape
and then, devour the remaining bones
By the wall: ’s nothing there.
Isolated by air. Those who hammer turn to flowers
Pollen smeared on the wall was carried
off in the mouths of autumn insects.
The wall flees
crushing lovebirds, pirates, and penseurs
The wall’s love song is encirclement.
At night, the wall slaughters everything
that once cast a shadow
or dissecting them
Human organs sleep in corners.
Bodies projecting onto the wall, splice
into one section
(I stand behind myself
and become a wall)
Translated from the Chinese by Canaan Morse.