I am Like a Desert Owl, an Owl Among the Ruins

    My grandmother‘s ghost， its girlish snafu

    Basking in the waters of urgency.

    But I want the coolness of snow.

    I want pairs of hands that speak to me cleanly，

    Sutras to resuscitate what reigns

    Over warped celluloid and heirlooms I can‘t touch.

    There are no family photographs.

    Once I was ordinary.

    I rattled around with arms， with legs，

    With a damp remembering that served me well.

    Then， a little sleep， a little slumber，

    A little folding of the hands to rest.

    I asked myself， don‘t you just love it？

    And then， why don‘t you just love it？

    And then， from what grace have I fallen？

    Am I Sisyphus with his mute rock

    Unsettling the topsoil， dissolved now

    Into brandied battle shouts and pages that breathe like people？

    There are hazards here， more so than before

    The Furies struck and scarved the white night sifting

    The bright waterlights blinking

    And grieving over a mash of ice.

    Like them， I wanted only to die， moon-dark， blessed，

    Poised beneath the driest arrows of my suffering，

    Far from the flocks of burning， singing gulls，

    Face to face with the God of my childhood.