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Volume 12.2

Ha Kiet Chau

Fènghuángl

Pages and pages of poems drift across centuries
of thunder, descend in Du Fu’s lap.

Puffing opium by a peach tree, he torches my couplets,
engulfs my words in flames.

At the Great Wall, we split a thousand-year-old 
preserved egg, banter in verse about peculiar weather:

ethereal snow and windswept autumns
as pages and pages of syntax swirl, desire butterflying,

水 and 火 burning timelines and seasons
shrouded in perpetual darkness.

Still, I bloom, I moonlit, and when he refers to me
as his rare phoenix, his Fènghuáng—so smitten,

I die not in heaven, but in Zen, in fifth dimension,
wings flowering over Tang Dynasty.

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