By Wang Xiping
The wind, from afar, has driven off your blossoms. You, with remnants unburnt,
Your short stalks, your almost swollen skulls,
A scoop of insects, falling from the highlands, tails upturned as they tumble down.
You, the Rilke of the alleyways, though not a butterfly or bee, you still
Fly about chaotically, setting up camp at the earth's fissures
With China's Li Bai—will you, fueled by alcohol, excavate this
Hollowed-out nothingness?