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 dusts grope their 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
No one gets up too early in this city,
even the 5 o’clock haze huddles into a ball
in the corner of an empty bus station.
I walk alone on the pebble path that leads to the hotel
and feel the sticky tongue of drunkenness
on my face.
The debauchery of the night curvets inside me.
I came out from the subway,
a sense of loss
to surround me.
People gathered around the exit,
did not give way.
I hardly knew them,
I did not understand
But some words, like birds
a horrifying storm,
came to me
with the sound
It was eight in the evening,
rodents began to crawl on the street;
Cameras perched on a branch
A police car
parked like a corpse