Father’s Blue & White Porcelain

a small jar of night　　a thousand frontiers carrying him
the sky of old age continues its kiln transmutation
continues arranging this pot plant　　lamplight
a glazed hand　　refines a blue cough
in his flesh he embroiders the fragile whiteness of posterity
turns around a thousand times　　the little
room a snake’s stomach swallows the longest diameter of life
his night-long waking　　like the sleep-talk of the whole world

awake and not looking at humans　　not even waiting for
a cup of darkness tea　　four walls softly slide up
a small iron table sinks into a venom-coated shaft
another red-hot circle sealing
his book　　its unread wings tightly closed
how many bloomings and fadings of seventieth birthdays have been fondled
startling a container with petals that cannot be rubbed away
lying down　　revealing again the birthmark of day