On Reading A Translation Of Li Po’s Exile
I find it comfortable here. The arrangements,
Light dying at five each evening; Witchy branches of the poplar trees.
Ground still bare and already it’s late November.
Jigsaw puzzle of sticks in the stove.
Pissing outside in the cool air; Smell of woodsmoke.
Long nights floating on a sea of velvet black.
Coyotes singing badly arranged songs,
Burning stars as sharp to the eyes as cold water to the scrotum.
Since we are not continuous beings,
Why pine for the loss of some imaginary state?
What other world, no matter how grand,
Can replace the one right here before our very eyes?