Water Calligraphy

1

A green turtle in broth is brought to the table—
I stare at an irregular formation of rocks

above a pond and spot, on the water's
surface, a moon. As I step back and forth,

the moon slides from partial to full
to partial and then into emptiness; but no

moon's in the sky, just slanting sunlight, 
leafing willows along Slender West Lake, 

parked cars outside an apartment complex
where, against a background of chirping birds

and car horns, two women bicker. Now
it's midnight at noon; I hear an electric saw

and the occasional sound of lumber striking
pavement. At the bottom of a teacup,

leaves form the character individual
and, after a sip, the number eight. 

Snipped into pieces, a green turtle is returned
to the table; while everyone eats,

strands of thrown silk tighten, tighten
in my gut. I blink, and a woodblock carver

peels off pear shavings, stroke by stroke,
and foregrounds characters against empty space. 

2

Begging in a subway, a blind teen and his mother stagger through the swaying car—

a woman lights a bundle of incense and bows at a cauldron—

people raise their palms around the Nine-Dragon Juniper—

who knows the mind of a watermelon vendor picking his teeth?—

you glance up through layers of walnut leaves in a courtyard—

biting into marinated lotus stems—

in a drum tower, hours were measured
as water rising then spilling from one kettle into another—

pomegranate trees flowering along a highway—

climbing to the top of a pagoda, you look down at rebuilt city walls—

a peacock cries—

always the clatter of mah-jongg tiles behind a door—

at a tower loom, a man and woman weave brocade silk—

squashing a cigarette above a urinal, a bus driver hurries back—

a musician strikes sticks, faster and faster—

cars honk along a street approaching a traffic circle—

when he lowers his fan, the actor's face has changed from black to white—

a child squats and shits in a palace courtyard—

yellow construction cranes pivot over the tops of high-rise apartments—

a woman throws a shuttle with green silk through the shed—

where are we headed, you wonder, as you pick a lychee and start to peel it—

3

Lightning ignites a fire in the wilderness: in hours,
200 then 2,000 acres are aflame; when a hotshot
crew hikes in to clear lines, a windstorm
kicks up and veers the blaze back, traps them,
and their fire shelters become their body bags. 
Piñons in the hills have red and yellow needles—
in a bamboo park, a woman dribbles liquefied sugar
onto a plate, and it cools, on a stick, in the form
of a butterfly; a man in red pants stills
then moves through the Crane position.
A droplet hangs at the tip of a fern—water
spills into another kettle; you visualize
how flames engulfed them at 50 miles per hour.
In the West, wildfires scar each summer—
water beads on beer cans at a lunch counter—
you do not want to see exploding propane tanks;
you try to root in the world, but events sizzle
along razor wire, along a snapping end of a power line. 

4

Two fans graze on leaves in a yard—
as we go up the Pearl Tower, I gaze
through smog at freighters along the river.
A thunderstorm gathers: it rains and hails
on two hikers in the Barrancas; the arroyo
becomes a torrent, and they crouch for an hour. 
After a pelting storm, you spark into flame
and draw the wax of the world into light—
ostrich and emu eggs in a basket by the door, 
the aroma of cumin and pepper in the air. 
In my mouth, a blister forms then disappears.
At a teak table, with family and friends,
we eat Dungeness crab, but, as I break
apart shell and claws, I hear a wounded elk
shot in the bosque. Canoers ask and receive
permission to land; they beach a canoe
with a yellow cedar wreath on the bow
then catch a bus to the fairgrounds powwow. 

5

—Sunrise: I fill my rubber bucket with water
and come to this patch of blue-gray sidewalk—
I've made a sponge-tipped brush at the end
of a waist-high plastic stick; and, as I dip it,
I know water is my ink, memory my blood—

the tips of purple bamboo arch over the park—
I see a pitched battle at the entrance to a palace
and rooftops issuing smoke and flames—
today, there's a white statue of a human figure,
buses and cars drive across the blank square—

at that time, I researched carp in captivity 
and how they might reproduce and feed
people in communes—I might have made 
a breakthrough, but Red Guards knocked at the door—
they beat me, woke me up at all hours

until I didn't know whether it was midnight or noon—
I saw slaughtered pigs piled on wooden racks,
snow in the spring sunshine—the confessions
they handed me I signed—I just wanted it
to end—then herded pigs on a farm—wait—

a masseur is striking someone's back,
his hands clatter like wooden blocks—
now I block the past by writing the present—
as I write the strokes of moon, I let the brush
swerve rest for a moment before I lift it

and make the one stroke hook—ah, it's all
in that hook—there, I levitate: no mistakes
will last, even regret is lovely—my hand
trembles; but if I find the gaps resting places,
I cut the sinews of an ox, even as the sun

moon waxes—the bones drop, my brush is sharp,
sharper than steel—and though people murmur
at the evaporating characters, I smile, frown
fidget, let go—I draw the white, not the black—

6

Tea leaves in the cup spell above then below—
outside the kitchen window, a spray 

of wisteria blossoms in May sunshine.
What unfolds inside us? We sit at a tabletop

that was once a wheel in Thailand: an iron hoop
runs along the rim. On a fireplace mantel,

a flame flickers at the bottom of a metal cup.
As spokes to a hub, a chef cleans blowfish:

turtles beach on white sand: a monk rakes
gravel into scalloped waves in a garden:

moans issue from an alley where men stir
from last night's binge. If all time converges

as light from stars, all situations reside here. 
In red-edged heat, I irrigate the peach trees;

you bake a zucchini frittata; water buffalo
browse in a field; hail has shredded lettuces,

and, as a farmer paces and surveys damage, 
a coyote slips across a road, under barbed wire. 

7

The letter A was once an inverted cow's head,
but now, as I write, it resembles feet
planted on the earth rising to a point.

Once is glimpsing the Perseid meteor shower—
and, as emotion curves space, I find
a constellation that arcs beyond the visible.

A neighbor brings cucumbers and basil;
when you open the bag and inhale, the world
inside is fire in a night courtyard

at summer solstice; we have limned the time here
and will miss the bamboo arcing along
the fence behind our bedroom, peonies

leaning to earth. A mayordomo retrenches
the opening to the ditch; water runs near
the top of juniper poles that line or length—

in the bosque, the elk carcass decomposes
into a stench of antlers and bones. Soon
ducks will nest on the pond island, and as

a retired violinist who fed skunks left a legacy—
one she least expected—we fold this 
in our pocket and carry it wherever we go.