There is only the soft-flesh sky, the cut of the waning moon ornamenting dawn’s collar-bones. That tender place, where morning pulses.
The day is fiercely cold, achingly bright. The moon sits above the trees, slicing a bone-white curve out of the blue afternoon.
The moon’s silver-edged belly fades as the sky grows gray. She hung like an omen from the trees; now she’s wan as an old scar.
The moon only waxes until the fifteenth. The days only lengthen until June. On the ridge behind the feathered stand of bamboo, a hermit sings his own praises in a eunuch’s falsetto.
Instagram is instantly addictive. The above was taken with an iPhone and an Instagram filter. For the English of the poem, see p. 49 here.
Sitting alone. The cliffs and peaks of the self. Got lost in my own valleys. That old moon again: the shadows lengthen like a tide through the night and are longest just before dawn. Who starts at the zenith and skips the ascendance? No one. There’s an echo traveling the empty tracts and wastes. A finger trailed in the water leaves no trace. But that’s what we’ve been about all along, me and the dark minnows kissing my heels. Chiaroscuro of waking life, it’s what isn’t in the light that makes the remainder so alluring.
The torn passage from evening to dawn. The sun hasn’t set, just slipped away unstable, unreliable; look, the moon past full a week hanging like a bright spot of mold. Time scrubs it away and then it grows again. I slept and rent my clothes from me in dreaming, woke and put on my face again. The day’s a seamless whole stiched together from the fingernails that old man chewed off in the night. Catch your sleeve on them, caught whispering words in a language no one taught you.
The internet gods are kind tonight and I was able to get the characters for the poem. As charming as amateur calligraphy might be, it’s nice to see the poem in a font, too.
First full moon of the lunar year, but the only light reflected is that of the city against an underbelly of blanketing gray clouds.