Four hundred and forty-thousand
Moons ago, Li Po sits
Drinking wine on a bluff.
The Sun fades into blue mountains.
On the other side of the ball,
The sun scales the horizon.
Crickets tune up
And the first bats
Sail from roost to roost.
I think about Li Po drunk again
In the mountains, waiting for word
And listening to the wind songs.
Lost and alone on so many levels,
He stares at the cup
And wonders when his pardon will come.
He holds a inkpot, scroll, and brush.
He listens to his skin fold
And his hair turn grey.
Between the mountains and stars,
A crow wheels over fogged red pines
Spiring in moonlight.
LiPo shakes wet peach blossoms
From his coat
And fills the cup.
On the golden wine
In the silver cup.
Who needs a clear head this night?