气

air

Poem

Today I hold on back and scatter for noise.
The penumbra is not penumbra, it’s pollution
and it’s always may
Time is barely clear these days, or actually most days for the last
who knows how many days,
and even though scattered
time continues to probe something to me,
for instance, Lao Tzu’s words made in wood
on the first floor of this building
the name we can say isn't the name
the horizon I cannot see isn't the horizon
I knew, before the fug went away and
saw the mountains for the first time
after days of living here, in this window
in this room, in the third peripheral ring
of a blooming mainland lacquer
distinct and mundane, ever mildly dimming
like villas emperors go to die, vertical dashes
this muddlesome rain, however frugal
praying mantis disposes of others,
their species sprawling on surfaces rarely seen,
like found fluorescence, past eleven
o'clock inside a fish tank,
and beyond the tank there is nothing.
,