Afterglow

by Bai Hua
    trs. by Fan Jinghua

This afterglow over Constantinople . . . . over Riga . . .
turns into bliss in his body.  He gazes till he cries.
A fugitive’s eyes are particular, and poetic life is always short.  What strikes his eyes last disappears first?

By afterglow he sees his forty-year-dead father, rubbing shoulders
in front of General PO Afterglow
— How strange this should happen in last night’s dream of Johor? (Forgotten or remembered, this is a delight.)

This afterglow over Constantinople . . . . over Riga . . .
turns into bliss in his body.  He gazes till he cries.
Young Nabokov is another, who punches like his mother when young, with knuckles instead of her fist.

Feb. 11, 2017 Singapore