Li Bo in the Garden of the Gods


We walk together through the Garden
of the Gods, breathing sunlight
from an impasto sky. “Serenity strikes

me as foolish,” he says, “in an unquiet
world.” The God of Wealth, round-bellied
and green as jade, smiles above 

a reflecting pool. Copper and silver coins 
glint beneath. I rub the smooth statue, 
Li Bo raises his empty hand. Coins 

jingle in our pockets.  Hungry, we amble
to the teahouse, find a table in the shade. 
Our waitress glows like a silver moon. 

She speaks of sugar and cakes, and then, 
mouths stained, we find ourselves 
alone by the side of a restless sea. 

It roars in our ears. Li Bo strips down
and rushes into the surf. Soon I see him 
bobbing far out, a black speck among 

white sails and surging fins. Glare stabs
my eyes. How the water burns, its surface 
orange-red, consuming all in a fiery embrace.





Li Bo by the River
   “We were falling down
   river, carnal
   slippage and shadow melt”
                                   -Rita Dove

He sits by the river tossing 
rocks. Each splash widens 
out in circles 
of golden worlds.
“Look,” he calls, standing 
at water’s edge
where grass meets river and rock. 
“See how the banks tear 
apart, how willows roar in their green 
silence!” He speaks and I see 
in his words a wound in the earth, 
a seizure in the north, where 
glaciers had their birth, and my breath 
hangs in amazement above the current’s rage.





Li Bo Drinks From the Well of Forgetfulness 


And yet, he forgets nothing,
neither temple bells nor the sight of geese
lingering beneath a breath of cloud.

He recalls the gentle curve of his lover’s
foot, her fingers weaving through his hair,
his body opening like a secret door.

Water’s icy touch reminds him of winter 
mountains, driving slick roads in early 
dark, eyes bleeding tears as he struggles 

up against sleet. His tongue recalls 
the metal tang of lust. Tonight, his hair 
burns, palms and knees recall the scrape of bark.

He is a watchman on the road to midnight
who recalls how coins feel as they fall 
into his hand, silver jingling against copper 

and gold.  He remembers a brown house 
with windows blinking like a hundred eyes, 
a yellow dog circling and dragging its chain,

a tall girl painting in a meadow beyond the pines.
He can see her surrounded by Queen-Anne’s-Lace
as she works in summer sun, her wrist’s practiced

motion daubing the canvass with light. Her figures 
descend, backs bowed by buckets dangling 
from shafts that dig like memory into shoulder bones.