Litang River
I remembered that day, we
climbed on a tree we couldn’t name.
The season had ripened the fruit
and you were the one who could tell
where to find it. Mottled leaves
spread brocade from the bough
we sat on. Beneath us, a thousand
small suns floated on water.
Neither of us moved, not because
of fear. It was a time we didn't need
to find ourselves, when the sun
lent us eyes, wind touch, rivers ears,
trees smell. The clear water rippled
and splashed, our untaught language.
Our narrow ravine cradled
a crystal sky. I held your hand.
Beautiful things best forgotten.
I was the first to leave, the last to return.
Another fall. Cold streams winded
past my reaching hand.
You’d crossed to the other shore.
Collector of Old Things
I go where time heaps alkali
on every brick of every wall,
where dull peeling concrete
has muffled the city’s angry roars.
The bell of my bike and its creaky
tires will announce me.
I’m pleased how the Shikumen
tosses echos like balloons
that burst. Give me the negligible
when you hear me. We might strike
a deal: red-lacquered Mao badges,
black-and-white televisions;
commercials from the republic time;
certificates from thirty years ago.
I’m not picky. You’ll get your cash
from cobwebbed things. What do I get?
Well, let’s say some people
are fond of the once-have-beens.
A man told me there was more beauty
in the tangible than, perhaps, memory.
Then he became a portrait in my bag.
Now I’m old. I’ve lost some teeth.
Still I pedal on until one day I cannot.
I’ll make sure to hand my bones to you.