A monk is knocking at adoor by moonlight(Jia Dao)I go to answerstumbling over catturning a cup of teainto my ink potmy brush tumblesI open the dooronly the moon
echoes and fragmentsIn silence I write words I cannot speakI can’t find the name for what I long forI wonder if being too careful is harmfulIn the lines of my face I see the edge of sorrow and the memory of laughterBreathing ice slivers I watch silence falling in flakesThe stones I placed on the woodstove warm my bedHow complex simplicity can seemWhat is that fragile fragrance of memoryI can’t find the name for what I long forI strain to hear silenceCan I make a poem of something that tastes like ashesA deafening beauty beneath drag of wave —a rattle rumble of stonesBetrayal is a stone too hard to swallow*I’d like to write a poem but I don’t know what it would sayI carry lovers and husbands inside me to places we were never together —Is there anything left to be said I haven’t said about jealousy and regretDesire diminishes — I hardly remember its fireWhat would happen if I were forced to listen to the sounds of tortureIs there any space at the edge of safetyA bowl of pink and orange peaches blushes in the light of the full moonDesire sleeps beneath forgetfulnessAt the corner of regret and desire a wind withholds the delivery of springI read your letter — rain streams from my eyesDo the deaf recognize silenceThoughts stream and bump into each other —Your words try crossing my roadThis is not the right timeThis is the only timeThe bruises of morning I long for this something I cannot name*In a space of silence I learn what isThere are those I love who are shaking on an edgeSleep pushed me out of her lap, walked away, left me stranded in dusky morning hours and unfinished dreamsI make space for the emptiness filling meI thought ours was a steadfast loveWatching you watching herIt doesn’t help to remember loveSome days everything is a prayerLoneliness is hollow longing deepHow do I capture what is gone*I don’t know how this story begins or how it endsBefore I knew what God was there was salt waterWhat would it be like if bombs and guns felt guiltGrief is a pulseIf I ate your words, really digested them, could I write your poemsIs it the aroma of baking bread I remember — or is it the anticipation of the taste of breadOn the median of the Penn Turnpike my gravel bitten brown calf skin vol 3 (of 8) of Byron’s Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage liesIn my dreams I never arriveI must find the island of lost words*Beneath flickering stars lightning daggers and frogs speak of fleeting things8 swans stir the pondClothed in torn sweater and words I wakeA leaf clings to the window waiting for flightlike meWhere is the boat that carries sorrow awayIn the snow I cried for the love that tasted like springSometimes only pleasure fills the empty cup of longingButterfly on a window of memory and sadnessA woman trembles in a distant countryI drink red wine until the stars weep then everything begins againNight leaks away*I must find the island of lost words