I am Like a Desert Owl, an Owl Among the Ruins

    My grandmother‘s ghost， its girlish snafu

    Basking¹ in the waters of urgency.

    But I want the coolness of snow.

    I want pairs of hands that speak to me cleanly，

    Sutras to resuscitate² what reigns³

    Over warped⁴ celluloid and heirlooms I can‘t touch.

    There are no family photographs.

    Once I was ordinary.

    I rattled⁵ around with arms， with legs，

    With a damp remembering that served me well.

    Then， a little sleep， a little slumber⁶，

    A little folding of the hands to rest.

    I asked myself， don‘t you just love it？

    And then， why don‘t you just love it？

    And then， from what grace have I fallen？

    Am I Sisyphus with his mute rock

    Unsettling the topsoil， dissolved now

    Into brandied battle shouts and pages that breathe like people？

    There are hazards here， more so than before

    The Furies struck and scarved the white night sifting⁷

    The bright waterlights blinking

    And grieving over a mash⁸ of ice.

    Like them， I wanted only to die， moon-dark， blessed，

    Poised⁹ beneath the driest arrows of my suffering，

    Far from the flocks of burning， singing gulls¹⁰，

    Face to face with the God of my childhood.