25 November 2010

Strangers/

China.

Fifty years ago, when my father was a boy, 
old women still had bound lily feet
in the south, from a train window
mountains jutted heavenward like dragons' teeth
and fishermen-poets by the river like weathered parchment
spoke,
truth.
Two revolutions to thank for this. 
Meaningless digging of a foundation pit.
Until the next chapter erases its predecessor
still. We hold.
On,
and on.
To rivers.