\quad \quadThe land rover turned a corner.

In daylight
there was only
Yellow dust
where he was born.
Sculpted
out of soil and muddy river
and the wind a chisel.

\quad \quadIn its wake, the wheels swept up a fine mist
\quad \quadlike a bullet that yearns to outrun
\quad \quadits trail of bodies.

He shut his eyes from the red raging of the earth.
The plateau remembers its age
by the withered bones it witnessed— all laid out,
end to end, its unbearable heaviness tied to his feet
like shackles.

\quad \quadWe came to a stop beside the lot.
\quad \quadAcross the half wall, there it was, lined up
\quad \quadlike a lunar eclipse. Like a chorus.
\quad \quadLike three blocks of blackstone with the same lousy inscription.
\quad \quadGrandfather. Father. Son.
\quad \quadWho will be the next interred?

Someone lit a match.
Paper bills— SUVs— luxury mansions
went up in flames. Delivered to the afterlife
where no more years had difficulties.

\quad \quadDownwind, we coughed with red eyes
\quad \quad& watched the sky char.

Apart from my dreams, I've almost forgotten
what he looked like— when he breathed his last, his hand
slipped slowly out of time— all wilt & thin to the bones.
We weren't allowed to look at his face.
Thus were the mysteries of a life
I never had a chance to suffer. And on the seventh day
we all cried, our knees against the cold stone steps, forehead
clung to the ground. But I never did fall
on my knees. I had to remember him my way:
No, not as a hero, but
one day I saw his apparition
on the evergreen fields, a face bronze
under the sun & covered in dirt, plowing,
sowing, toiling the land—

Earth has undergone
ten revolutions, and I still
rip off page after page
from my notebook, till I've drained
all its soul, futile ink
seeped into imperfections, its powers
dissolved. And every
\quad \quad \quad \quad abrasive, intimate
note, roots and fibers crumpled,
lacerated,
is tender reminder
to your hysteria
and my defeat,
\quad \quad \quad \quad and that awful
relic— unbearable scar on your abdomen
like a hallowed parasite
I left you with. A pain so vivid
and tidal, neither of us
had asked for, but a glimpse of the prelude
and the
\quad \quad \quad \quad epilogue. And in between
I was the only miracle
that tried
to be. And I tried not to be you, I have
tried so, so very hard
to be good to me. And in the end
our distance saved us from our mutual
altruisms.
\quad \quad \quad \quad And last time
I called, you said you found peace,
and I think I found mine,
too, and I'm glad
we both did. You had so often said:
One must imagine Sisyphus happy.

I lay on the sand
at the edge of land,
scratched my head, and yawned.

Once in a long while, a flock of seagulls
arrived, announcing
the scarcity of mackerel.
The passing of an arrow.

I waited, until gusts
rocked the boats up and down.
I stood my ground.

For the thing in my chest
has served a lifetime's worth of lifting.

The sky— so blue, almost like blood.
All along the shoreline, steeples rose and fell, rose and fell, rose and
fell behind the towering cranes.
Their necks
were also red.

It was getting dark. I forgot
to mention: a so-and-so lady,
a silver balloon tied to her purse, walking past the bridge
disappeared on that day.

She rose
from the ground,
her rumpled silver hair
had an aura of fire.
It traced
an elegant curve, an arbitrary
locus— So fragile, yet so teeming
with life— teared through the
boundless sky, like the twin tracks of
a traveler

on a winter's night,
alone
and outnumbered, just as
how the living is outnumbered
by the dead.

Passengers, they departed
one by one
from the parking grounds
And vanished out of sight.

So I vowed
to remember them both:
Someone had to.

In that sandwich place by the pier
Dead stare opposite ceiling fans
Bronze-painted table and mahogany chairs

I felt
on my eyelids
the heavy burden of time.

Thursday
Outside, an instant
passed, and I woke up ashore.
If I were Vincent
which shade of pastel blue can
reveal the sky's secret door?

Friday
It was her who asked the third time,
the day of dark, bottomless clouds.
I do not know, whether to say
No, or, Yes, I do not know.

Saturday
After the downpour, cats emerged from underground abodes,
along with bottles of amber promises
ready to be reborn.

Sunday
A day's false start
Starts with yesterday's
Hangover, a wet wool carpet hangs above
Train tracks, drawing smoke
from faraway chimneys.

Monday
afternoon— skipped class,
sitting by the black marble
and white oak trees, you
watched the warm sunlight reflect
and dance on three thousand lives.

Tuesday
A fine mist crept across the Commons.
An old man lying prone
on the public bench
under today's papers
snored, like a baby.

Wednesday
The wind scatters
in the evening bells.
The azure dome
recedes into the heaven.
My mother and father
walking, hand in hand.