by CAConrad

would
a church
exist if our
fear of death
did not prevail
retire the invisible
arm reaching in and
out of our attention
a tree
reveals
its pulse
to the
leaning
lovers
was that you
it wasn’t me
our names
materialize
on lips of
everyone
we love
a brief
frequency
holding each
syllable
midair

by CAConrad

Do You Like
Your Species
is my latest
questionnaire
meet me at the
quarry where
Michelangelo
conjured David
falling is
felt all
over the
body the
next day
imagine
trees hurting
on the forest floor
our every cell
singing the
Ghost of
We Shall
Rise Again
if you call this planet
evil one more time
I will have to learn
to hold you better

by Ma Yongbo

The feeling of entering something makes you hesitate
Perhaps the void inside and that around
Contain a certain continuity, which is aroma
Extracted from the same plant, before you can think
You find yourself in the seal’s yellowish skin and brain
Careful salute to those entering before you is needed
Who are statuettes in rows above clapboard
They eye each other after you turn away
Yet you come here anyway
As if to enjoy the invisible look that
Surrounds and measures you, the uncomfortable presence
in–yourself
Then you have also become an old object, dim bronze ware
Ceramic fireplace unused for years, books for ornament
Arched windows occupy almost the whole wall
As the stale afternoon sun shining through stained glass
Something seems to be moved secretly
Like details neglected or left out while being reviewed
But nobody will mind it long. This Russian mansion
Is canopied by an elm whose leaves start to turn yellow ahead to
season
Located in a sidestreet, breeze comes occasionally
From the green wooden loggia

by Ma Yongbo

How I wish for an attic, its slating ceiling
Blue swirl of starry sky can be painted on
Blonde angels with a sack on his back
Flying horse, unicorn, the three furies
Taking turns to use the only eye, boat of Odysseus
Winged golden sandals, donkey ear, water well
The only small window with stained glass
The vineturn and climb onto it, till the roof
Light of different time perform magic
Tree shadow swaying like colorful confetti of kaleidoscope
You can come and go through the window, on the slope roof
Pulling the branches low, tasting the sour of stars
Cross carved from driftwood hangs on the empty wall
Waxed crimson wood floor
Too slippery to stand still, sun rays slip too
Old books, flowering succulents placed
Along the walls, tired of reading, throwing away the book
Just lie down on the floor, big cricket hops in
Rubbing its forelegs, sometimes you pray
or stare blankly, other times you write nonsense poems
Like what I am doing now, with no earthly purpose