The time will come when our silence will be
more powerful than the voices you strangle today.
-August Spies
At Shekou Walmart, street lamps
wave red flags, and nobody gathers
to sing the Internationale.
They’ve rounded up the rats
on Nanhai da dao
for the holiday,
and Garden City Mall
has cautiously conspired
to mass pink flowers
in the ocean of red
that lines the escalator
outside Starbucks.
Dao ke da feichang dao
Dao ke dao feichang dao
Voices still,
silence, small, will
carry on, nameless.
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Black dog likes the sound
of my feet on paving stone,
picks up the pace, falls
into it, slips on
a new step, dances
a universe he might
inhabit, tries it on
for size, turns at a voice
from one he does, pauses
till it catches him,
knows his goddess
by her step,
settles home
until another
dance draws him in.
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Low gray could be mistaken
for the weight of souls,
but it is light as April in
Oklahoma, and blackbirds on
every side street sing sun
that will be along by afternoon.
Du Mu must have found his tavern
hours ago. But it is too early
for sorrow here, and rain
looks more like hope than tears
in eyes accustomed to dry wind down
from mountains.
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