Since I have known the plains, I have seen revelation.
Not mine, my brother's revelation--
a solid beat behind the sky, something bloated with blue light
staggering against evening's velvet curtain.
More terrible because it is not mine, and better, because
legendary spots should remain legendary.
I hope mine never arrives. No one should tell me
that my isosceles dream of knifing the other woman
is less urgent than the molten gold of his love.
Gold and knives are no longer relevant. Nor is the ravished brother
or the chosen one who saw the rabid squirrel of my true self.
Though it is true that a mad squirrel lives inside my trunk.
I am a mouth without an ear, wasting glamorously away in a cage.
My chinchilla mate is gone, the one who listened
to the spot behind the sky. The chinchilla believed that the sky
was a thing like frosted glass. Perhaps he will return.
I'm sorry things degenerate. I have a room for thoughts depraved.
I can't turn anything away. It's a farm in here.
Everything that waiting breeds.
Acorns upon acorns of poisonous raptures
fill up and stopper the faults in the doorway.
As for the other room, it is a room so bright
I cannot enter. I can't give it a name.
- Feng Sun Chen
