Here
From The Redshifting Web: Poems 1970–1998. Copyright © 1998 by Arthur Sze. Used by permission of The Permissions Company, Inc., on behalf of Copper Canyon Press.
From The Redshifting Web: Poems 1970–1998. Copyright © 1998 by Arthur Sze. Used by permission of The Permissions Company, Inc., on behalf of Copper Canyon Press.
I gaze at the Pacific and don’t expect
to ever see the heads on Easter Island,
though I guess at sunlight rippling
the yellow grasses sloping to shore;
yesterday a doe ate grass in the orchard:
it lifted its ears and stopped eating
when it sensed us watching from
a glass hallway—in his sleep, a veteran
Ginkgo, cottonwood, pin oak, sweet gum, tulip tree:
our emotions resemble leaves and alive
to their shapes we are nourished.
Have you felt the expanse and contours of grief
along the edges of a big Norway maple?
Have you winced at the orange flare
—Just after you sign and envision building homes on this tract you smell me in the dark
know that I move through this terrain at night though you only think of building
and selling even now you believe you can borrow my spirit by wearing a mask of my
face on your face look at me delve into your fears is your deepest fear to be hacked