From my balcony I can read a strong poem that the moon has pasted on the river. Everything is quiet. Now and then, a wave breaks the message, temporarily changing the font from bold to italics. The moon in its crescent appearance is the precision blade of a Shaolin warrior. I’m concerned that if I gaze too long, I may carelessly jag my retinas on its razor points, pierced globes adding vitreous humor into this serious stretch of river. A mullet leaps from the water and reconstructs the moon’s message; it is now the sound of one silver hand clapping. Above, an anonymous comet breaches the sky a small eternity, but shooting stars don’t have the recoil of a poem executed in the lull of moon fire.