Westward
only Russian olive flowers recognize me
only scarecrows view me as a leaping sparrow or a
butterfly
again I see aspens comb the wind straight
sunlight wants to discuss poets with me
when I leave out uselessness and poverty I leave out
glory too
ground snow turns to water
if Heaven could feel， it would age！ westward
I consider only you as life
only your vast sparseness and desolation have truly
possessed me
mirages on a body only you
when I leave
one more orphan in this world
only camelthorns and needlegrass with a desert's loyal
blessings
only patches of low clouds moving westward
going west
Yunnan Dusk
at dusk in Yunnan
we discussed no poetry
nor did we share the so-called sufferings at night
two women
neither of us a mother
we discussed the starry sky and Kant
Mother Teresa and cardiology
discussed atheists' superstitious waning years
the beauty of certain things lies in their shadows
look from another angle： childlessness can render us
complete
More than Poems
the sun is a lump of cow dung
poets eating mutton chewing goat's head rise up for
an oath： to be grass in the next life
what would I become
petals or dewdrops
or thorns？
the sky knows which cloud contains rain
who knows you？ yak or Dolma？
what about the carpenter named God？ surely
something has
yet to happen
in one's destiny
Daxia River I fish out my heart for a rinse
time is endless
a perfect skirt
a romance's tears
a feeling of falling anytime
more than poetry： chimney smoke from Tianzhu pastures
Poplars in the Wind
bring to my mind noble men of spiritual strength
and radiance
men who bow to their suffering shadows
—those I love they
are so similar …
thus
the same one
without exception
Watching the Sea
it is a seagull
wings striking waves
billowy waves—often used to convey an inner world
and a majestic era
by the coast of our homeland
we discuss the past the destiny of a generation
in my daze my hand is held again
by an afternoon from 1996
—what does not happen now
will not happen again
it is the sky beneath the sea
lightning is diving
the sea brings forth the birth of a sun in a leap
immense radiance
staggers the sky
struggling
before it stands firm
Church under the Falling Snow
before my bureau lifting my head up
I see the church
the most ancient solemnity
I sit before this bureau all day long
teach people entertainment and fun
tell them where
fun is more lavish
more exciting
more twenty-first century
occasionally for the public at large
in a tiny page layout discuss casually
new ways to toy with old things
sometimes I lift my head up
look at the church under the falling snow
its towering spire
does not bring much news from heaven
just a dot at the top
Returning at Night
you bring politics and a body of cold sweat
cigarette quivering in your mouth you bring
pitch-dark
empty boulevards
doves' somniloquy： sometimes momentary details
define the whole thing
rain-soaked wind
wet matchsticks you bring mankind's mutual
yearning for love
you bring your body …
so weary
lying in her bed
Qinghai Qinghai
we are gone
its sky is still blue
eagles still flying there
rapeflowers still in bloom—
swaying gold in the Tibetan land
honey in Buddha's light
memory is still lying there—
O bright moon when did you appear
you and I anoxic sleeping bags next to each other
you pass along a Salem cigarette： history can't be hypothetical
I hand over a cigar： never will lost time return
a century later
the meaning of life is still lying there—
if life
holds any meaning
Somewhere
as usual I arrive somewhere
go to spa eat fish and shrimps stroll along the
ocean and inland
reading old books
on a balcony rocker
autumn water in tune with the vast sky
seeing hills before me
the red hills of Georgia dreamed by Martin Luther King
where sons of past slaves sit with sons of their masters
enjoying fraternity …
splendid sunlight
softens me
all day long
I have never felt so feminine
as if fading in a sweet era： someone in the dark
reinforced in light
Western Xia Imperial Tombs
nothing vaster than a tomb at dusk
time brings fruits buries flowers
away from the Western Xia the Helan mountains are still
before my very eyes
when a monarch replaces another
do rivers and mountains change？
that is a tombstone and stone
a fallen leaf and autumn wind
a dynasty and a fistful of yellow earth
unlike a xiao[1]but like a xun[2]—
a graveyard keeper's low， flat voice： no pines and cypresses
this year
plant pink
and white peonies
Seoul， Early Morning
so early
a magpie stands on a church cross
I pause
morning sun is rippling in the clouds
a magpie
on a cross
quietly
with mouth shut
—what other good news is there for us humans？
and I vow： love the rest of
life love
Solzhenitsyn's face
Village
in the fields where eagles catch chickens
a flock of sparrows in a scarecrow's eyes
rain in sunlight
a woman in rags
with a ladybird dreaming in her body
blood in voices of sharp wheat awns
a weary song
in chimney smoke
a girl with a painting portfolio on her back
stands alone： a Van Gogh in the shadow of sunflowers
The Night of Buddha's Light
had I no dreams of you
I would dream of no one
night of Buddha's light
deities are sowing
I am made complete by my shortcomings …
and those
shattered …
Amit？bha—what flower is a mercy flower
Amit？bha—what human is a poet
Kanbula
Kanbula they hoped to find a poem
and eternity
I wanted to see a wolf
startled running howling
colliding with sunset
other than a wasteland and withered grass in my heart
Kanbula
I saw nothing
and slept against a tree
such a quiet tree
Kanbula under a clean sky
there stood snow mountains
with eagles flying
while I merely soothed the torture of my
post-alcohol depression with sleep intervals
again I slept awhile
Kanbula
In a Dream
in a dream
self-slain poets recite poetry written in the other world
death in poetry
silences more voices
eagles and fishes are dancing Akhmatova is turning
around：
no please stay away from me
how can this woman have such a desolate back—
a poet's back！
in the dream I see them—poets who committed suicide
one by one
their smiles like a riddle unraveled
—death has a face messed up by meaning
The Wind Here Isn't the Wind There
the wind here isn't the wind there
dark night here doesn't know
how many lamps
I need in one night
as if of two minds
I distance myself from carrot as from cabbage
from dreams as from reality
giving up ideas anytime
how long
can the white pills calm me down？
some visible words
lure my soul like a signal
the classroom
lifts me up
with progress every day
Spring
flapped afar by bees' wings
I enjoy its singing
prayer implicit in praise
a dewdrop trembles
the first butterfly flies out
for the sake of peach blossom it likes itself
a bird flying past winter
stands on flares
within its dry feathers
its body still wet
a pale yellow leaf
escapes a spring chorus
sending its blessings upward
from a place below
A Puddle
other than them I
enjoy the devotion of a frugal
destiny
if rain stops now
corrugated sheets will still drip wet
they will walk out alone—
umbrella menders
knife sharpeners
flower embroiders
—simple men
bliss from each
ounce of effort
huge raindrops falling heavily
running water loaded with fallen flowers
if rain stops
we will encircle a puddle
the puddle
knows at a glance
how far my heart is away from them
Then
then I get drunk
seeing you
on the moon in the Gurbantünggüt Desert
with sincerity or tipsiness
I keep repeating：
I want to steal for you a Uyghur girl who can dance and herd