by Yang Wan-Li
I don’t feel like reading another book,
and I’m tired of poetry—that’s not what I want to do.
But my mind is restless, unsettled—
I’ll try counting raindrop stains
on the oilcloth window.
I finish chanting my new poems
and fall asleep—
I am a butterfly journeying to the eight corners
of the universe.
Outside the boat, waves crash like thunder,
but it is silent in the world of sleep.
Last updated September 05, 2017