Weekend Poetry: Three Poems
Absorbed by wine, I do not notice dusk.
The blossoms fill my clothing when they fall.
I stand up drunk, then wade a moonlit brook.
Birds scatter; just a few are left at all
(Translated from the Chinese of Li Po)
The caution tape is tattered
and flapping in the wind.
Birds guard the median
where glass and steel lie shattered.
There are no robins hymning
or gawkers at this scene—
only a lowered sun,
raw cries of crows, and dimming.
The level yesterday was red,
the color on the splattered dead.
The level for today is green,
although the chatter stays obscene.
Tomorrow’s level will be gray
as light is lost throughout the day.
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