Empty Is the Past

 by Brett Rutherford

     after Li Yu, Poem 38

Does some persistent bumblebee
come to my fluttering eyes
expecting dream-nectar?

How disappointed
     he must be!
I am a sour well,
    a soap-work,
    an iron forge,
    a leather tannery.

I haven’t a good word
    or thought or prayer
    for anyone.

Sorrow I cannot escape,
     except in the dreams
that make me even more
     miserable.

What wakes me up?
What forces me
    to greet another day?

There is a thread
     that pulls my eyelids open,
made from dried tears
    that stick to my face
from cheek to beard.

O to stand atop
    an autumn terrace
with someone, anyone,
     beside me!