(Entitled: Not what I know how to do)
The night gleams.
Silent, except for
The occasional roar
Of the semi-distant highway
And the computer’s hum.
It is 2 am, and I am
Tweaking another’s recollection
Of semi-distant tragedies.
Still fresh, brutal;
She asks to borrow
My neutral red pen.
No one is neutral;
History’s wounds
Shed collective blood.
What a petty generation
We are now. Petty,
Lazy, privileged.
Life’s little gusts
Devastate us
Unaccustomed to real storms.
The night gleams.
Remembering poets,
Martyrs for art and truth,
Shame my silly excuses
And pet problems.
I will try to deserve
What lingers of their shadow
In the gleaming Shanghai night.
