by Brett Rutherford
after Li Yü, poem 18
The rain falls so hard, I squint
and cannot uncurl my eyebrows.
The red petals, undone, are washed
away in streams and rivulets
until I cannot see them.
Spring floods are underway.
Streams will be high,
some paths, unpassable.
Even when rain is done,
I hear nothing.
The copied key inside
undoes the one her captors
made to hide her. Free,
she can move like a ghost
on any moonless night.
No sign of her. Incense has burned
down to the nub and seal. The light
of my night-candle is nearly gone.
How much longer? What agony
that if I go to sleep, she comes
to me anyway, but cold, serene,
as thin as a cloud, untouchable.
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