Lăoshī

Our souls touched hands, yours said,
There is no word for me in Chinese--
and I see through the worn look, the gravure
rising towards a tempestuous and unsure
outcome. My qualifications? These:
I do not hate poetry, or poets, and I have traveled.
Not much. Who has traveled as much as you?
And yet it has brought you here, to me--
on this grey couch, this office travesty.
I don't want to know about your sins, your marriage
or how much you care about Asia.

There is no word for you in English.
You have learned that journeys are circles
and circles are wheels that turn over
the same ground, over rocks and ruts:
You say, give me your reasons without buts.
Then you turn away. Life is fifty-fifty,
You are not sure of anything, except shifting
wishes and the breaking of certainties.
I saw you at evening on a park bench.
Willows drank the water, and I wanted to say
If you walk away, well--the herons will stay
but the blowing white spores, the wishes, will die.