Waiting

there’s nothing ambiguous about the autumn winds now
they clutch at my flesh
a night for murder, moon high
the sky incomparably clear
in the remote past, men with a bit of fame
would have sat down and written poems
that made a bird or a rabbit
pop up through the table
and vanish into thin air with a whizz
actually
they would have been wearing lined silk jackets
and sitting in warm houses
as their concubines prepared stewed game for them
in the adjoining kitchen
me, I’ve never enjoyed such luck in my life to date
I sit waiting by the river
for someone who hasn’t shown up yet
the various smells are already frozen solid
there’s just a trace of cold, and that cold
on the water as it approaches mid-autumn
fills me with pity
a towering poplar tree
hangs down ever so slightly towards the night
its head—the moon is just as small
and thin as the edge of a knife
a knife that could murder anyone, past or present

WAITING