by Qi’ang Meng
Counting the takeoffs and landings I opened my eyes again
inside an airport waiting-hall reminds me on a cradling train.
of ebbs and flows, though A hawk soaring over was
to nobody could I tell this. a grain of brown rice.
Midnight, an old man riding a bike The novelist sitting next to me
flitted by the crossroad like a shooting star. for the whole morning must
Merry Christmas, he said. have written a story about a dumb
Merry Christmas, I answered. poet staring at the fallen leaves.
She kissed me for so long that the church bell By leaving the rented apartment on
dared not croon. The driver behind her Fifth Avenue, I let the potato chips
had loaded my baggage onto the shuttle bus on the desk evaporate in vain
and waited by pretending to study a stop sign. and the deck of cards divine its own future.
As soon as I type the last word, sunlight It was drizzling. The moon yawned
buds out from the damp dark clouds behind a white Ferris wheel, with
and rests, like a meek insect, the crickets quenched
on my glasses frame. in the unfathomable bush.