most of my life, Chinese
poets have been climbing
mists, "wandering-cloud poets,"
writing on rocks and scraps of bamboo.
Early autumn morning, a moist wind from the
east prevails. From beneath a woman's bandana, sweat drips over high cheekbones, knobs of
black basalt she wipes, and coughs, as the bus bucks over downtown streets, loosening
rivets, she turns to me and says, "It's the angle of the sun, not the weather, that
tells the trees it's time to give up their leaves."
Sasquatch cracks a smile,
work of an artist who went beyond elementary realism to create, in a conventional
of the epoch, a precious object of paleolithic art. There is another detail of unusual
interest in this figure. The skillful play of some missing teeth.
Were there really
poets who walked
on mountains living on flasks
of wine and the crust of