Blood race

I love how new this is, how heart-wrenchingly good,
while half of me wonders if it will all fall, spades over hearts,
when shaken, or tipped.

The racing of my blood fills my throat and holds it, vice-like,
and thus clamped I struggle to toe the line and follow the path,
training wheels missing.

Could you perhaps start with a look, so I can catch it, knowing,
at last, where this is going to go? Words in wireless trip over their own
pregnant definitions.

And maybe if you start with that promised look, I will be happy
to offer up arms in greeting, hands in welcome, folding you close
to feel your blood race.

May, soon June

Please remember,
In these tight moments,
Alone,
In the steady drip of rainwater off eaves
into pools already overflowing
with sky-water long overdue,
What it is to long
for -
When all seems clipped neatly in place,
edges lining up,
that today might be the paperwork,
shuffled and dealt with,
and yesterday the rows of washed
cups,
dried and clean, collecting dust,
but that tomorrow will always be
that one drop
one drip away
from the puddle,
or the leaf,
or the nose of an upturned face -
Remember:
longing wrings the oxygen
right out,
Even though crossed-out sentiments
make it easy to deny
ever having a need.

Your cups may be clean,
and your paperwork sorted,
and still the drop
hangs.

Earnest cliche

I have let them go, friends once and no longer,
And our camaraderie has, as they say, sailed,
(Missing journey implied) --
But sometimes the what if of us blows back into port,
And then I see, once more, the ship pass by,
There it is - and there it goes.
Was it wrong to haul anchor so?
Nautical metaphors may work well in the sinking,
Eventually, of all remnants of that worn-down boat,
That skiff, that raft --
Until it is nothing but driftwood floating
forlornly, its doom not far --
But in this cliche, all I want to say is
our ties were cut justly
and even as I rig the display - the model -
that ship in a bottle - as a fond reminder -
I know I will cork it tight
And, metaphors be damned, be glad
that it is over, and for good.

Gao tie: Shanghai to Tai'an 2015

Cobwebbed skies
Sunless daylight
A cold brightness, chilling hearts
Across expanses of frayed toothpicks
Muddy prints filled with stillness
Blocks of residence
Human residue for miles, as deep as sight stretches
And as long as lives;
Ones that have never known, someday,
Anything before the milky cataracts
Of smog blanketing China's ancient eyes.

Tai'an 2016

This chatter in China, whole vowels
Toned tautly, characters clipping
Through air dense as cotton
And I, lao wai, walk, head bowed,
Parsing the threads of unknown
Tongues and climates, picking up
Rinds of meaning, their zest obvious,
Their seeds a mystery.
Here, they stare as hawks at prey,
But I've stopped expecting differently,
Delighting instead in the widened eyes,
Slightly parted lips of wonder.