rejectomorph

The sky is a mottled, starless mass, and there is wind. Birds fail to call. I listen to the leaves drop. Now that the roses are gone, the deer have lost interest in this street. I have the place to myself, but don't know what to make of it. Last evening, I heard kids playing late games on some other block, long past dark. Then, the voices seemed more distant in time than in space, but that's been true for as long as I can remember. Maybe that's why I can pass through the world as though invisible. Someday I might catch up. Then what will I do?

Sunday Verse

Meandering River:
Three Stanzas, Five Lines Each

by Tu Fu

1

Meandering River desolate, autumn skies deep- withered
bits of brown lotus and chestnut drift. Lamenting this

wanderer handed-down into old age is empty; White
pebbles and shoreline sand also chafe back and forth.
A wailing swan, alone, cries out in search of its kind.

2

Singing that which occurs, neither modern nor ancient,
my rising song only breaks against bushes and trees.
And those houses stand, in their lavish parade, countless.

I welcome this heart of ash. Dear brother, dear little
niece- why so hurt, why these tears falling like rain?

3

I have asked enough answers of heaven for one life.
Enough, having hemp and mulberry fields there,

to settle near South Mountain, in Tu-ling. Riding
with Li Kuang, in simple clothes, I will end my
failing years shooting phantom tigers as they appear.

-translated by David Hinton

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