NIGHT

1

Flutes mourn on the city wall. It is dusk:

the last birds cross our village graveyard,

and after decades of battle, their war-tax

taken, people return in deepening night.

Trees darken against cliffs. Leaves fall.

The river of stars faintly skirting beyond

frontier passes, I gaze at a tilting Dipper,

the moon thin, magpies done with flight.

2

A sliver of moon lulls through clear night.

Half abandoned to sleep, lampwicks char.

Deep wander, uneasy among howling peaks,

and forests of falling leaves startle cicadas.

I remember mince treats east of the river,

think of our boat adrift in falling snow …

Tribal songs rise, rifling the stars. Here,

at the edge of heaven, I inhabit my absence.