One Hundred Poems from the Chinese
He who sleeps all night beneath the snow
is a chrysanthemum
whispers One Hundred Poems from the Chinese
one rainy day in October
when you can no longer think of the soldiers
in Afghanistan who spend their nights
shooting at the same five guys.
The camels are spooked and can't catch a wink,
not to mention the kids in the mud hut
who hope One Hundred Poems from the Chinese
is something you can eat, or sell for something to eat.
Is there anything One Hundred Poems from the Chinese
can do for the broken toilet?
Probably, but neither you nor it can figure out what.
Still it's there for you somehow there
for all of us like a moonbeam
lighting a little piece of the house.
Months pass with no mention of Wandering Ghost Bridge
or snow-capped mountains
until the moment you need one
and One Hundred Poems from the Chinese is there
with its little bald man waving
from beneath his thatched roof with an armful of roots.
-- Ben Mirov