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Multiple Layers of the Body
Now we come to the celebration of cranes.
I once was a crane. You were a crane. We all ate fish.
Hear my cry across Poyang Lake in Jiangxi Province?
Feel the lower Yangtze basin itself into a vast migration.
Even an ordinary air burial blesses the snow.
The gliding rites of conifers and the crags of heaven pierce my bliss.
Any erratic movement—not just sipping fire from the bodies of dead lightning bugs—
sends increased blood to the cells, to all the sleeping limbs, including the ghost-flock
of cranes.
Stroke my black-speckled neck. Wingbeat the wind. Call me only by the first names
each of the lamps have—in draining their oil—given the delirious bloat of gnats.
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