We are not born yet, and everything's crystal under our feet.
We are not brethren, we are not underlings.
We are another nation,

“Good trembling,” CJ said as we
Walked along the docksides in our thin jackets
Even though it was winter on the East Coast.

Somehow, the two of us sit in a café
bordering the park. Its grass succumbs
again to chronic green, and I see,

I think this year I’ll wait for the white lilacs
before I get too sad.
I’ll let the daffodils go, flower by flower,

Particular essence . . . taken pain . . .
The gift.
And the unwrapping.

It’s a little later. And very dark and quiet now.
A few scattered lights penetrate the empty distance.

City emptiness terrifies—even without the stars.
I mean —the blankness—and silence—have force: gravity.

Later we began to learn to live
At the mouth of this well of the pure desire
For an end of wanting, the descent into the sun.

Times when the mountain is not here
except as the bells of cattle grazing
in the fog, or higher up, on the tropical side,

A platter of walnuts, I think. 
Shanghai and the banquet is festive. 
Strong Chinese brandy and “Campi!” 

In the other world 
You’re holding a bubble in your hands 
It reflects everything as it grows