Reading Po Chü-i in Morning

by Cara Benson

A car starts, an alarm bleats, and the tenants
behind such thin walls in the very next room call each other asshole.

This is my stream: this noise. It tumbles into my mind,
and I am inclined to refute it. Would Po Chü-i

escape this capital? Should I? My thatched hut in the hills
would be no more than a white-trash trailer, and so be it.

But when necessity calls the neighbors away and cars begin
to whisper while passing, I see pines from my writing table.

 

Quay note: also by this author Sirius