Poetry
Poems, sequences and versions.
Sequences and multipart works
A and B
How often we sat together silent, deep into the night; the lone lamp’s red tears slow to fall.
Two poems · 9 September 2026
Some nights, before the curtain, we trimmed the lamp together; a whole life talked through, and again it was the third watch.
The Roof Splits Open
The roof splits open. Inside the split there is ash. Inside the ash there is no wind. The wind has gone. Cannot go.
Individual poems
Has a summer come to mind?
That summer, July’s cicadas had not fallen silent, and your laughter had not stopped.
To the tune of Linjiangxian
Ferment and malt, salt and plum: no old recipe; dust comes, but has not rippled the fragrant stream. Before the curtain, about to leave, the shadow stays first.
To the tune of Chaozhongcuo
Feather-gold combed into a blossom of hidden scent; the scent reaches the mirror and stops. With only a shadow for company at the railing, longing to stand side by side; one strand of red hair entwines first.
To the tune of Fengrusong
At the hill pavilion, snow is about to fall; frost has already formed, yet the stubborn sun remains. Slanting light falls on the bricks and still will not depart; the golden brazier is lit, waiting for you t…
To the tune of Queqiaoxian
No need for letters; I treasure the old things. On the paper, only ordinary words. Yet lips moistened the wound on a tender hand; years later, how much remains?
To the tune of Linjiangxian Yin
The enclosure cracks; the feast disperses; the bell hangs into evening—a moment’s stolen peace. Star City no longer holds those good years.
To the tune of Mantingfang · Thinking of Chutan from afar
The wind’s pendants have just stilled; rain combs the morning hibiscus; letters knew the arch of the brows first. One low call scatters the dream’s strings.
To the tune of Manjianghong · Hoping to hold you back, knowing how it must go
The old split barely sewn, spring wind again presses a guest to stay. The door would close; the curtain’s shadow turns instead, letting spring slip in.
To the tune of Manjianghong · Rereading an old poem, remembering contact renewed after years
Turning the old verses again, I first recognise the strength I spent then. I once took it all apart so finely: a few words turned a thousand times, breath faint and voice rough.
To the tune of Yingtianchang · Calling Back
Calling back, still I straighten the empty robe; the last warmth at its cuff stays on my fingers.