So much he wants to lie along with flowers,
—those carved on stone—afraid of living frailty
and trembling, dying remnant hope whose powers
derive entirely from once steadfast loyalty
whose open two-way flows towards both rising
and bungee-jumping ends to cover many
of naughty Fate’s unpaved waterways hiding
are what his bounded senses cannot carry.
He listens to the gulping voice of rubber
believing only in what spits from vastness,
in permanent excess, that he thought suffers
so lightly from brushes with forgetfulness.
Convulsions, yesterdays and all their miseries—
They pin one’s eyes to Sisyphean reveries
Yi Wu lives and writes in Brooklyn, New York. His work has appeared on New Verse News and indefinite space, among others.