taking aim at the sun

he drowned
while trying to embrace the moon
reflected in lake-water.
rubbings from the Wu Liang shring reliefs

between dying branches
i cross the red pavilion,
cold moon filling
sleepless nights
through gauze windows.

my long index finger
grazes mooncake remnants
and the blood
of your still-beating heart.

i picture you:
riding through star drenched fields
and lacquer-black lakes;
wondering what kind of man
you have become.

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