Eye of Heaven
On paunchy green hills
in some province of China, I speak to you.
Someone buys a perfume. recalling
that his lover’s bones are small.
When he writes
the note, when he wraps
the little bottle. he takes that into account.
So do I.
The subtlest trace of
intelligence clinging to your shoulders is your true skin.
And I press myself to you.
I hear the steady rhythm of your typing, the key
of a borrowed pulse But it makes no difference, that it was borrowed!
For a while it’s mine to use.
then lour turn but the pulse originates
in the Child of Heaven who has hearts to spare.
Some day you’ll sink yourself into a frozen
lake where paper ships were torched with the
names of the missing Some dead some vanished
The flames consume all but
the wisp of smoke on which a single word rises
and water licks at the rest. So we arc freed from a weight
Perennially your hills are filled with birds
Green hills, the deep mosses around yous temples
They. the birds. arc in your flock.
As I am, naturally.
Faithful to a world unknown
a world for us alone paper-thin, and too fragile to speak of.