I cannot create a texture that sings
The way birds hum in the moonlight,
While streaking through the grey hair
Of parting clouds. I cannot strap a guitar
On a clinging door that floats
Halfway in the middle of space
And time (if they exist). What I am
Is a voiceless whistle trapped in a hissing mask;
What I am is a starker stalker
By the lornful beats of an ancient mandolin:
You'll understand if you take the route to Beijin.
Who put the Jin in Beijin? There are glass towers
Poking out of the sand, wishful mutations.
And the Bei? Some German word,
Falling off a foreign tongue,
Scattered in a pronouned panacea. Together
They are a fragrance of enchantment...I digress:
The poet is a hulk, the world is a hulk
Molded.