| After
supper I am talked out. The moon is yellow |
| and
has forests of stone hands |
| that
keep it from singing. |
| After
drinking sweet wine and digging into Mongolian |
|
hot
pot, |
| after
euphoria and shaking hands with the cook, |
| I'm
outside the red building with Wang |
|
who
reminds the moon |
| of
her old drinking companions, Li Po and his shadow, |
| who
jumped up to a river of stars. |
| I'm
all talked out. The rusty gate drifts |
| around
the compound like a fisherman lying in his boat, |
| wandering
in a peaceful garden lake |
| others
call the soul. The moon's hands are green. |
| I've
one less day in my life. |
| The
old school's locked up, the city closed. |
| It's
only eight |
| but
a Buddhist flute works up to heaven. |
| Soon
I'll be back in my chair, trying to turn |
|
into
books. |
| |
|
Willis
Barnstone, Oilcloth Covered Tables with Potted Flowers |
