Sadness, After Li-Shang
Published in No Tell Motel
Sunset erases pledges
and her footprints. The snow-twitch slants
the orange roof slats.
The third watch bell complains, here
in Syracuse. My wifes devotion
is far-flung. She has chosen
the pug-faced flowers of our rank
village, her brothers gossip,
the barn cats that left dead jays
on her yellow porch,
her mothers gravestone,
and her fathers dull jokes
over the glam of my posting.
I choose to finish this envoi
in hare blood which will thicken
as it falls from the Jim Brown Bridge
and into the salmons mouth.