Poem for Meng Chiao

if morning were alone in the world;
a chrysanthemum dragon comes toward the end
blank hollow gong faced statue busts
in nooks and crannies; many despots, many tiny free lands,
dark contours where emptiness dwells, and flowers
made only of light fall across things which might be
both paradise and plague
an old and melancholy rat catcher who tells me
his dream was to be a wood worker
the thousands of soft and dappled bodies
logs lost in twisted rivers live as flutes in jumbled valleys
mourning an animal friend in cold wind
the earth's natural process is the nameless demon
of all these exultations and remains
and scree and scree and violins go out eerie
into concrete literature and hydrology
hissing to mean gorges and huge steel mantis
singing with the electron fire of voices
all the lands now are known as barbarian lands
and the shimmering ache of clarity is the
dim bulb of reason; dive chrysanthemum dragon
into the rich Cimmerian broth of soil
this tongue star rails on and on
what is jade-pure rain but greed and absolute charity
combined into a gorgeous monster
a clear blue jade fusing all appendages
heaven's mind is strange