Chen-ou Liu, CA
Home
for Homeless Artists...
I ponder
this English name
in my Chinese mind
with
falling leaves
I dance on the grave
of my poems—
in the beginning
the poet wrote mere words
three years of my life
have gone out the window
listening
to pauses between writing poems...
the sound of falling leaves
I hang
the conformist in me
on the cross—
a born-again poet
who speaks in concrete images
summer
heat....
words make love on paper
engrossed
like an aspiring member
from Dead Poets Society
for
hours now
my muse and I
have played hide and seek—
a lone star stares at me
on this Good Friday night
migrating
through the ages
geese leave no traces in the sky
...yet never forget
the way home
