Young Writers Society

On the border of the out-breath and the in,

is a wave where life is freed from seeming so,

body and external traits are gone,

and our essential natures liberally flow.

There are no vessels there to gather vacuums,

and the sign for presence is different, the account’s

not personal, not nominal, only the rhythm,

burning like the stars, is incandescent.

On the border of the out-breath and the in,

is a wave where life is audible, like music, but not seen,

and it is there that poetry takes its lines,

and there we posthumously atone for sin.

On dampened paper

I sketch words

in Chinese ink,

where trees,

transparent and bare,

live in a snowy ravine,



their birds in the south,

their leaves under snow,

their branches in darkness.

Chinese servants

have arched over

dreaming of warmth.



Frozen feet

chime in the frost.

Lantern dawn

flickers on the road

in Chinese uneasiness,

inside spaces,



where ancient books shine

in caves, gleaming, freezing,

in the most hushed moments

on the mental shift of

those who have

gone out into themselves.