The Glass Constellation - Arthur Sze

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fingertips glow in the skin of their days.

      FROM The Willow Wind

      1972

      Noah’s / Dove

      The moon is black.

      Had I a bird

      it would fly,

      beat the air into land.

      To remain

      or trust

      the silver leaves of the sea?

      What if

      I say what is:

      no bird, no land.

      The sea tossing

      its damp wet fish

      on the bow,

      their lungs exhaling

      the sea, taking in

      moon air

      for the first time …

      The Wood Whittler

      Whales and fish

      sailing

      in the sky!

      Old saws! Old saws!

      Red flakes

      falling off the wood

      like leaves.

      Fire?

      The woodcutter

      pares the skin

      with a

      knowing hand.

      The blade—rude—

      will carve

      his / mind’s mastery

      in the /

      witless earth.

      Li Po

      Jarred.

      The oars creaked in their locks.

      Fish beneath the moon.

      Cradled his pen

      filled with wine.

      A goddess stirred,

      rocked the cradle of his boat,

      let the silent fish know

      a dreamer’s silver hands were at work.

      Pegasus on a Pipe

      He would ride the moon,

      prod the slow seahorse with a cake of salt

      and when it broke sweat,

      urge it ease,

      watch the wings sprout, remorseless.

      Miracles

      His lens misses her,

      the leaves cast double reflections

      on the glass. The one

      is his shadow; as he leans up

      he discovers a new perspective,

      a range he never considered.

      The leaves, shaggy edged,

      twirl the light in their hands.

      A new source; he must

      pay his respects deftly.

      They have his power.

      He must acquaint them

      with this peripheral vision—

      the woman walking down the steps

      is no longer his wife.

      The Execution of Maximilian

      Muskets triggered a white smoke,

      and it fell like snow,

      soft death to purple eyes.

      I saw the clean glint of the man’s pants,

      and knew what was coming,

      hit the ground for the last time.

      And the snow covered me like a corpse.

      They mistook me for one

      who had lain there a long time.

      And they rushed on instead

      to the crumpled body by the wall,

      stuck their bayonets in

      laughing, and jostled each other on the shoulder

      like friends long unseen, now returned.

      Sound Lag

      His glazed lips

      moved slower

      than the

      movement of words.

      Overhead, black clouds

      were poised

      in the sky,

      then moved on.

      In the real sky

      they had

      no place to go.

      The air cooled to zero.

      I look again at myself

      in the mirror.

      The veins of the dark trees

      outside

      vibrate.

      Their song is, at least,

      mine, but

      I am engaged elsewhere.

      I extend my hand

      through the glass

      into the living world.

      Sliding Away

      Your hand rigid, curled into its final shape:

      the rest of your body breathes.

      The dark coals you pour on his grave

      continue to breathe.

      A snake slides through the

      uneven grass

      where it has cut a

      name for

      itself

      by

      sliding away.

      Strawberries in Wooden Bowls

      You carry flowers in a jug of green wine,

      and the smell is that of the first fires in autumn

      when the leaves are blown into their reds and grays.

      The sunlight rains through the glass.

      As you

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