Nocturne for Lu Yu
For all the autumns in poetry
how many Octobers were left to litter?
Of course the polar breaths are innumerable.
And me toiling in lamplight
winter having blown suburbia bare—
how many of my days can I remember?
I pick a book off the shelf
and its leaves crinkle like paper.
My hopes are fragile and plentiful,
fated to the seasons of my thoughts.
Lu Yu, what did you find in eleven thousand
poems? What does one learn from eight hundred
years in the grave that can’t be deduced
from a glance out the window?
The world persists despite its darkness.