The architect draws from his file
a map, on which
a tiny spot is red-circled.
Here, he says,
six billion investment;
His eyes glisten like coins
and his black tie dangles like a sword
above the blueprint of a tower,
the color of champagne gold.
I know the block of the street, where
rosy clouds flew over
houses with mortared walls,
home to eaves-seeking swifts,
by excavator tires.
traveled from hands to hands
and arrived here,
in an antique store;
a display of a turbulent past,
on yellow pages, where
a downpour of thoughts had fallen
and a roar of raging words—
after almost fifty years,
by a red price tag.
deep in the garden.
A bizarre phantasm in a still
A wound where
flows and stops
the air, thwarted
by the refracted light
A hundred years—
in the name of a billion RMB
its terracotta redemption
when time confiscates the iron-trace
*Zhang Yuan, or the garden of Zhang, is a renowned residential house built early of the last century in West Nanjing Road, Shanghai, now an area for bars and cafes.but news comes this garden will soon be demolished for a new shopping mall.
Man speaks your name like a burning anathema,
and picks up your body where
butterflies of newspapers circle above you.
The yellow sun is in your hair, the darkened color
of tamed waters.
The warm yellow sun—
The quiet yellow sun—
Your death rides a black van;
Your death, more real than life, comes at five o’clock,
in a wedding tuxedo.
The sad blue sky’s clear dust gropes its way down
toward the city,
The asphalt roads glimmer like ice.
Red lights dim, like eyes deprived of sleep,
trying to understand the great mystery of the morning.
An old man stands at an empty phone booth,
looking at his map
on which a thousand places are marked,
with no names.
His walking stick dangles on his arm,
a compass uncertain of the south, where
the sun throws a shadow.
a black cat,
jumps into an open window, the curtain tied back and knotted.
An army of houses stand vigil on the first day
of a lunar winter