Stray dogs, a pack of them
slept in his bed after they took him away
You’re telling the story wrong
you’re telling it backwards
He painted with cooking oil and crushed lilacs his work
flat, lifeless
All you need to do is grow figs, blueberries You’re telling the story
the story is wrong
Sometimes, coffins float to the surface
empty, except for a cup of water
Does the sea cast a shadow? I asked you a question—
Rocks, like underwater coffins.
In China they buried revolutionaries in the ocean
with cups of ice water
They say a man must return everything he takes—no the other way around
When it was all over he lit a blanket on fire
draped it over the opening
of an empty tank
The first time I saw you
you reminded me of the Chinese character for window
Remember? It was the street next to the street with the fruit vendor
He missed the revolution because he was sharpening kitchen knives
in the emperor’s kitchen
I met him when he was an exile in Berlin
When he thought of home a boat unmoored behind his eyes
on the deck
ospreys in mid-flight
How, in Kowloon, you read the ocean
like a Russian novel
He wrote me letters in English
so the guards could not read them
In one letter he mistranslated heaven
as today
Look at me your mouth your eyes
coins in the dirt
Once, I knew a man who gave his life
for a country that despised him