I once believed a single line
 in a Chinese poem could change
  forever how blossoms fell
and that the moon itself climbed on
 the grief of concise weeping men
  to journey over cups of wine
I thought invasions were begun for crows
 to pick at a skeleton
  dynasties sown and spent
to serve the language of a fine lament
 I thought governors ended their lives
  as sweetly drunken monks
telling time by rain and candles
 instructed by an insect’s pilgrimage
  across the page – all this
so one might send an exile’s perfect letter
to an ancient hometown friend

I chose a lonely country
 broke from love
  scorned the eternity of war
I polished my tongue against the pumice moon
 floated my soul in cherry wine
  a perfumed barge for Lords of Memory
to languish on to drink to whisper out
 their store of strength
  as if beyond the mist along the shore
their girls their power still obeyed
 like clocks wound for a thousand years
I waited until my tongue was sore

Brown petals wind like fire around my poems
 I aimed them at the stars but
  like rainbows they were bent
before they sawed the world in half
 Who can trace the canyoned paths
  cattle have carved out of time
wandering from meadowlands to feasts
 Layer after layer of autumn leaves
  are swept away
Something forgets us perfectly