1)

Flowers soaked in a deadly potion,

white petals, white.

2)

The stairs

I stumble upon ——

in a transitory darkness

you gripped my hand.

3)

Red walls, long narrow expanse...

the gray smoky image of the Forbidden City.

The forbiddeness only tempts you to go nearer.

4)

Every time I think of all these people in this world...I feel frightened,

whose bottles drunken,

drained, hanged, rehabituated with dry flowers

as a way of disguise. Thinking, of

the toxic fluid it, they and us endures...

silent dissemination. Flowers do not scream,

whose black-and-white last image they selfishly guard and praise,

must feel smothered.

5)

Winter is a glass shield,

once you are inside it the world

is silent.

Spring takes it away and now under the sun suddenly you hear people talking

like a plaza of pigeons.

6)

I see myself holding the pen,

I see the page starting to fill

I see ink running on, like a leopard chasing an elk

It sees no defeat no trace of empathy

I see it crossing the snow locked plain like lightning.

I see what it is chasing,

I see how its heart burns and pumps and

I see what

It sees and

I see it looking back (a glance) and

sees my pupil dilating through which

I see a shuddering, powerful, lonely soul.

7)

Unaccomplished things

from last life

like a stream, still has potential, has to fall down.

Some rent unpaid, some promises unkept, some lovers unfound,

calls you,

drag you again from the coffin,

like how you haul yourself out of bed each morning.

Life is just viscous fluid falling off a mountain cliff.

8)

The sun is a weak newly-hatched chicken.

9)

The days in the mountains.

A plaster courtyard, a ceramic bowl and

A rusty blade stained red by iron rust.

The rust probably tastes like chicken blood.

It is always hard to tell if the chicken is killed,

due to the knife blade chill

or simply chocking on its own life.

The very blood which used to flow in its body,

ripening its feathers and its morning calls,

now comes to this.