An island is growing inside a snowflake.
And there are three closets inside an old man’s skeleton.
Sometimes there’s a very young bluebird with bat-wings
nuzzling the coat hangers. Sometimes Adélie penguins
swim through a keyhole and shake icebergs into shoes.
And on rare occasions, the largest closet will argue
with itself and pry a rib from the skeleton, and say:
old man, your boots chase an empty boat into the ground,
try skiing back home from the dead, try lifting snowflakes
from your eye-holes. Such is the playing of streetlights
on a drunk poet’s taxi ride through Beijing.
Yes, it’s OK to drink and write. – mh clay