^{—after Du Fu}

^{for Donald Justice}

Who shattered my window with a stone?
I thought it was the wind, willful
after a dry season, or heaven
making a terse remark, but aiming
my flashlight I watched
the last boy’s crimson back
struggle over the fence
and a tiger’s fierce face sewn
on his denim jacket as a namesake.
How his few years have plundered
the heartwood of reason—why should I
relinquish this house, this poetry
I shaped and reshaped with love
to the wont of stray bamboo?
No use calling the sheriff nor
waking a friend. The angst is mine, mine.
I slouch, I sigh, my eyes
too bleary now to see
early autumn’s dragonflies
skim over the filthy tarn
and into the water oat,
cut water oat.