Flooding Beichuan

Dark air comes rushing and I
cannot wake from dreaming the sound
of trees moaning. Rain
imagined spattering into puddles
of sleep. I cannot find the edges
of the sheet music blowing
holes in the earth blockade.
The town was wrecked and now it’s
drowning while the evacuees stand among
terraced fields and weep.
Cold bones are floating up from
temporary burial. It’s too wet to light incense
or burn red envelopes, so this
countryside will be full of
hungry ghosts for some years to come
and the trees keep moaning.

Beichuan

Collection available! Knocking from Inside