It seems the fiercest love is no love at all, in the end.
Sipping wine together, we feel nothing now but absent

smiles. Candles, at least, still have hearts. They grieve
over goodbye, cry our tears for us until dawn-lit skies.

translated by David Hinton

were made
in twilight
difficult to keep
at midnight
broken
by dawn

Chuck says
when we were younger
it was sort of a whimsy
to think of time passing
before we shrugged it off
and moved on with our day
now it’s a reality
fleeting has a new meaning
and each day
each moment
a new significance
there is nothing quite like
these Saturday morning conversations
to remind one
of things one cannot overlook
anymore
so it’s Judy Collins
on the stereo
which prompted that comment
and wine this early
in the morning
and the hell with time
let it pass
there’s laundry to do
some food shopping
buy a steak to eat
with eggs for breakfast
tomorrow morning
and dare that specter
to try anything funny
with me today

there is no winning
here
just a question of
how much to lose
save what you can
let go of the rest
what doesn’t stick
was never yours anyway
forget what they told you
about yours mine theirs ours
about choices
roads to take taken
each leads to a cliff
the question is not to fall
but how far down
life is losing more
than you gain
a sad reality
people places things
all you really take
with you
is what you cultivated
inside
and if losing it all
to start over
is the price you pay
then pay the two dollars
and move on
there’s more to see
to do
to feel
and what did you think
it was about
anyway
it was always this moment
poised on the cusp
ready to step off
into one more lifetime
for however long
it lasts

the little things stay
a tug on the old heart strings
the body will sag
remembering what lingers
never able to forget

The premise of moral art is that life is better than death; art hunts for avenues to life. The book succeeds if we’re powerfully persuaded that the focal characters, in their fight for life, have won honestly or, if they lose, are tragic in their loss, not just tiresome and pitiful.

In journalism just one fact that is false prejudices the entire work. In contrast, in fiction one single fact that is true gives legitimacy to the entire work. That’s the only difference, and it lies in the commitment of the writer. A novelist can do anything he wants so long as he makes people believe in it.

Palace at dusk, the pearl blind is lowered,
Drifting fireflies glide and come to rest;
Through the long night I sew a fine silk jacket–
My thoughts of you, when will they end?

translated by Ronald C. Miao

Suppose it all turns into, again,
just the common, the expected
people, and places, the distance
only some change and possibly one

or two among them all, gone–
that word again–or simply more
alone than either had been
when you’d first met them. But you

also are not the same,
as if whatever you were were
the memory only, your hair, say,
a style otherwise, eyes now

with glasses, clothes even
a few years can make look
out of place, or where you
live now, the phone, all of it

changed. Do you simply give
them your address? Who?
What’s the face in the mirror then.
Who are you calling.

there come those times
in the day at night
when you replay moments
adjust positions
fine-tune dialogue
edit in your favor
those words
you shouldn’t have said
and you think yes
this is the way
it should have might have
played
and a different life
than the one you’re living
causes that lump
that tear
there