From the Fishouse

wearing a suit of light.

It’s too easy to be

strange. I glow

reading a few pages

of an ancient Chinese poet

to calm me, but soon

I am traveling down

terrible roads

like an insect chased

by golden armies.

Then I am tired in a little boat

filling with smoke.

Then in the seasonably

cold morning I am

once again missing my friends.

Some have been sent

to the capital to take

their exams or work for a while

or be slowly executed. I

cannot help them, I am trying

to build a straw hut

beside the transparent river.

The sky is a perfect

black dome, with stars

that look white but

are actually slightly blue.

I have two precious candles

to last me a night

that has suddenly come.

I feel the lives of cities

drift through me,

I am a beautiful scroll

on which the history

of a dynasty has been written

in a dead language

not even one lonely scholar knows.

I see sad crushed plastic

everywhere and put

some thoughts composed

of words that do not

belong together

together and feel

a little digital hope.