1. You Bring All of Yourself
When the sun has fully turned to summer,
you are still there,
among the indistinct clouds.
You do not come,
do not step on any of the seven strings,
rhythmically stepping out of the unclear clouds.
Nor do I go.
The stop sign is yellow, hidden by pagoda blossoms;
I fear I might lose my way.
The wind runs along the shadows of flowers till noon,
and noon shatters in the sound of the qin.
Flowers are like eyes, gazing at fruits from afar.
Leaves and sails turn brown gradually —
summer is growing old.
For loneliness is a game of Go,
played by the left hand against the right.
In a throat murmur, I paint rust over your name,
walk near the fence, bend with the grapevines and peer.
It is already summer, so much summer.
Soon the flowers will put on yellow jackets.
The last bus always writes ugly novels,
yet cannot write your warm name.
You are my summer.
When you come, summer stays.
Let maple leaves burn themselves out.
As long as you bring all of yourself.
2. Perhaps I Do Not Love You
Perhaps I should not speak this obscure sentence.
Your drizzle is about to damp my swaying steps again.
Your story moves me,
moves the vast seasonal moods in my heart.
A liquid landscape rises on our cheeks, a curved theme.
Your eyelashes, scattered with chinaberry flowers,
take me as your future.
Yet from your small figure, I revisit my past.
In this summer with a mischievous sun,
innocent fruits stir the noise of old days.
It is only that we are too gentle, like water,
fond of waiting and remembering.
All from one moment’s attention
grew into the whole secret of my life.
I love you — the shadow of my childhood in you.
Please love me too — your promised autumn in me.
Let us be two mirrored Z’s,
lyrical on either side of a single sentence.
3. Duet
We walk into a night without a title,
into a bumpy alley.
The moon, a yellowish raven,
holds the burning road behind us.
One easily grows emotional in the dark.
You say it’s nothing — we’re poets,
so I am no longer shy.
I take your hand and walk past the lamps of misunderstanding.
Alley connects to street; the alley is a solo.
We are a bumpy duet,
perhaps all duets are like this.
We laugh secretly, and our laughter turns to flowers on branches.
We cannot turn back; the moon still lingers,
we have lingered too.
That year we both lost love, both looked pale.
It is fate, you say, pressing your lips
and holding me tighter.
I only lift my head and whistle a clumsy tune.
The alley leads to the long street.
We count the stop signs one by one and do not stop.
In every tree shadow, two pairs of eyes catch each other.
The duet behind us spreads into a clear mixed forest.
You imitate my whistle,
then scare yourself away.
On the main street,
we give away our bumpy heartbeats
to all the lingering figures of Pisces.
4. Loquat Island
Loquat Island lies where God does not reach.
Invitations are rejected,
stamps are rejected.
Even the temperamental typhoon
cannot land on Loquat Island.
Loquats on Loquat Island never ripen.
Summer flowers only bloom for crowded music.
All numbers from one to seven love lyricism.
Loquat Island, Loquat Island, far out at sea.
Tender green coconuts are lifted by tides to keep balance.
Drift bottles carry distant questions.
We pass through the typhoon.
We land gently, on each other’s coastal lips.
Since we came, the moon has hidden in the bird’s nest in the tree,
the sun has lost its way in our eyes,
and drizzle always murmurs softly.
Since we came, loquats no longer turn sour.
We occupy the date of waves and rocks,
the date of moon and sun.
We link our hands into a rainbow and claim sovereignty.
With a wave of the sleeve,
we snap the rope of the canoe,
wave away the one-way wind and rain.
Let us stay on Loquat Island —
be two loquat trees growing ten leaves each,
standing in a season where even stones can bloom.
Loquat Island, Loquat Island, abundant in love.
Let us pretend to be mountain spirits,
cloaked in litchi leaves, greedy and playful.
If one day the sea is stuffed full of loquats we shake down,
will you invite the lovelorn typhoon
to come to our Loquat Island
and taste authentic loquat love?
May 24, 1985
