Bei Lang

dead apricot tree halfway up the slope blinking
and big sister’s hand, red from the stove

cow chewing dry straw thinking of water with a tear in her eye blinking
and a crease on one side of father’s face as he enters the pen

tiles on the furnace blown loose by the wind blinking
and scales of fish on the beach of the river Malian round the east

small copper mirror down at the bottom of mother’s wedding chest blinking
and a milk tooth I buried under the doorstep

gold on the foreheads in the Big Buddha’s temple blinking
and also the sutra that no-one can read

August 2015
Tr. MW, 10/1/15

Bei Lang


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