Wendy Xu

Such were they, a dumb stuffed thing to say, if truth is we all grow old un- observed, limbs flail only halfway up a flight, where does dark begin settling my little bones. I dream and do love to have them, blue fish in a lake, my head more tipped up than down under damp earth. Some days others like deer from the shot, peeled back, how I find trees dressed in wild green light. The years come, unstitched a face, saddled as one would a heavy beast for walking. Likely I became then a member of heaven, put up, the years come and reaching their long wet hands.

Moved all the way here to watch television alone, swallowed by the grim news grinning. Fuck a five year plan, first one passes through Tiananmen the gate of heavenly peace, emptied public square finery in summer, purple cupping red azaleas Happy birth upon a time, Nation! Reveling in my love for him coquettish worried, approaching paranoia for the home country removed that June The cropped photo best dilated in our pockets black and white It was a long hard road continuously reading analysis metrics, my father knew a guy worked in sales, was there and saw them roll in like nothing else Black pillars to the effective dispersal I felt nothing pulling from the airport’s narrowing gate In the photo we still get perfectly centered Longview the idiot’s consumption guide, naturally then my love for was only

You are part of other people but not like them. You live in a little wooden box and wake up with your face in your palm and some sunlight. Which is a sign of resignation but not for you. Which is part of what I meant by trying to effect change in myself and also talking. By describing to you that before a city can become spectacular its buildings must put on an iron gown. And then some workers climb all around it. And it is like having no teeth because you are waiting for better teeth. I tell you I am very attached to my old teeth. In a game called all of this is hypothetical I did not once slide my teeth across the table. I do not even remember what you offered as the hypothetical exchange for a life where I only drink soup. There were some girls on their bikes and wind. There were some people reuniting after many years apart or just a day. You were not like everyone else making demands with wild gesticulations. I thought about maybe trying to sharpen my knowledge of jokes. I thought about really needing a hug. A very important car with sirens rumbled by and sounded exactly right.

Stilled as in image, at dawn sliding into blue harbor, boats clang, where does he the man I imagine gripping several ropes return from. Is he conflicted, does he perceive the sky oscillating like a dimmer machine, a mouth, a war, language not declaring its most effective self,bellum grazing ever nearer to beauty, a possible apotheosis how what is left of sense is comfort. Not inebriated much anymore, I rented a lawn to stand in with you, crueler was always singing to our mutual forks, knives. Our translation of a subject drones on unblinking, something black for him returning, his forearms there laid themselves down, ships gone out another pale-plated night.

Tossing off expletives into the sea of cab lights, I lounge ever more than I work. I wear my silk pants to the middle-of-America themed bar as if white-collar were this Halloween's hottest new costume. It sinks like a stone, this attention to the lives of others. I think I have evolved to respect my social obligations, only complaining to the cell phone's warm illicit glow. I feel drunk on the whole leafy season when you hear me, working ever to avoid work. Sentiment forbidden by custom, industrialization forbidden by nothing. Down the block they have begun restoring the mid-century antique dresser, men shuffling back and forth with gold polish and sand. It's insane that I care to ask towards its progress. We repeat a process of hoping our bodies to the future though for now mine eats cucumbers in bed. I had a dream about a crystal blue pool. I felt stupid when I saw the ocean.

Feeling rich for one moment for using money as a bookmark Feeling deceitful for making public some opinions while neglecting others Feeling disordered at the sight of three statues conspiring in a row Feeling insufficient for having a lukewarm reaction to news Feeling important for having been offered a seat at the table Feeling apologetic for nonetheless tuning out an argument Feeling blue for identifying some people who don’t respect you Feeling like a knife slipping into a pool of water for bearing 
disagreement Feeling redundant for moving in a similar direction as others Feeling angry for imagining the opening of the passage yet 
unopened for you Feeling antisocial for declining further missives from home

Distrust this season breeds in me whole blue worlds, am second to leafy nouns, pinned back darkening lip of the night, untrustworthy sidewalk glazed and sleeping there, peachy trees, a line drawn from one brow of a star down and planted, each pillow little shimmer, little wilt startled from out the arranging field moonlit pale behind no foxes, in me finding the fragrant new crisis, not dead still where I love you in feast and pledge, worlds rolling first on crookedly and on.

Music, wind, someone’s car horn Imagining to return Buddha’s big toe on the lake Your intricate gaze of form Eating the lake like a word Unzipped carefully by day You walked it hesitantly You taste something step by step • Losing my way, wildly blue Perhaps annotated past The return gaze, my snowfall My city gate firmly shut Even to wonder how you’ve been Isn’t what you want, therefore Lightly enclosing my text Cast down toward what I’ve not seen • Happily a ceiling fan You grasp the word sweltering Days are tectonic, the sound Of one memory spoken Who waits for you at the lake’s Wild edge? Bright glint of the noun You knew dissatisfaction Speaking even against time • Recorded a length of time I held memory tightly Unoriginal dimming Of  the light there, a found scene Number three on the dirt path Father carries his school bag Without use for meter, yet Both skies open to thunder • Don’t speak to me of sorghum Red fields, pressed up toward a sky Whatever called to me there Too wild, attempting a face Old verses for my father Dignify the cooling page Black earth is the word it makes Tilts forward, consequential

Thinking to see them there, captains industrious in morning sun, I crack the egg’s tender yellow head Love comes to me un- repentant, toward it all vectors converge repeating, like moment of the necessary form I pluck a feather from your neck On the page one alights without permission, or love is an assemblage beginning each day identical, palpable I remarks of, is it that music or need edits my body two people leave a shopping mall with goods, death squad hovering high a streetlamp Call your mother, stay up late to watch the neighborhood undressing light, like multiple phone calls connected then hung up, get the family together soon, watch American bison overtake the field filling a vehicle lane in early snow obstructed I paused To see it, their dark furs shaking enormous out of trees they descended from the line of sky respond to a much deeper instinct we were then back on our way input later to the search bar I love keywords, like love is an exodus I imagine you sleeping, then a pyramid or chandelier throwing sunlight An absence emerges, sharp I regard the whole practice of it touch it

Today there has been so much talk of things exploding into other things, so much that we all become curious, that we all run outside into the hot streets and hug. Romance is a grotto of eager stones anticipating light, or a girl whose teeth you can always see. With more sparkle and pop is the only way to live. Your confetti tongue explodes into acid jazz. Small typewriters that other people keep in their eyes click away at all our farewell parties. It is hard to pack for the rest of your life. Someone is always eating cold cucumber noodles. Someone will drop by later to help dismantle some furniture. A lot can go wrong if you sleep or think, but the trees go on waving their broken little hands.