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.