There is no point in writing a poem tonight of all nights,

not when the moon is just a cold rock on a sheet that

somebody poked a bunch of pinholes in, not when my

face is just my face, and not Yue Laou’s wordless scream,

“how dare you conflate and Westernize me?”


There will never be a topic for a poem on a boring night

in a boring world, there is no frame of reference within

which every atom in my drooping eyelid is its own small

planetoid of infinite probabilities and random motion,

such staggering odds that the astronomer figures there

has to be life on one of them as I roll over onto my stomach

to bury my face in a pillow.


I think I will simply not write a poem tonight. There is nothing

to be gained, nothing to be proven, nobody to prove it to, and

tonight it seems I am truly devoid of thought, call it peace, sure,

and let the devil take his place tomorrow, let him try it later.