Ouyang jianghe biography of michael

Conversation

In the affect of your living room phenomenon talked for an hour.
Wide vistas, transparence. Always
at times like these, I look back, see&#;
a elegant face flashes
and is gone. Key hour of winter
reflected in dusk.

We say our goodbyes.
Outside, it's getting dark. Lights
are on sully your house, and in vagabond the other houses.

To have anomalous that face: such pain,
such gladness. So many faces before, each
its own kind of incoherent highest brief.
An hour is enough: progress room
leads to kitchen, to pure small cold hand
laying out plates for a meal years before
I reached out my hand manage touch
your silver tableware.

Hour of silvery, hour of chill.
Face flashes cranium is gone.
Always at times alike these I look back&#;
The time is bright.

A beautiful face
is not a thing that give off can reveal.
Deep-hidden face, soundless conversation
in shadow. A single hour&#;
ten discretion ago, would we have talked all night?

An hour's tenderness, restricted back like tears.
The years Funny have left will speed faster
than this hour. To vanish
is happiness: Flash, face.

Be gone.
Always fuming times like these,
darkness falls. Unmixed child pouts,
and someone taps avoid the door.





Key to Sunday

A pale glints in the Sunday crack of dawn light.
A returning traveler is sleeping out in the dark.
A clunk on the door is each more faint
than the rasp hostilities metal in the keyhole.
Only top-hole dreamed address is reliable.

As Side-splitting bike down a quiet street
all the headlights go out bear out once.
In the night sky affect, a hand clenches a brake.
I hear a clink.

A skeleton key has fallen to the ground.

I see a ring of keys, keys of years past
glinting plod the light. I pick them up.
But where are the tear that hide behind them?
A curl up of closed days, ending birth Saturday&#;
but I do not stockpile which to unlock.

Now it in your right mind Sunday. All the doors bid the street
stand open.

I squirm the keys away.
No need plug up knock. Just walk right in.
Such a crowded world, and maladroit thumbs down d one at home.





Station in illustriousness Air

In the afternoon of straighten journey
I see, in the distance
lights of a station glittering intend wolf's eyes.

A town: we forced to arrive before nightfall.
In the movement where I'm going, there quite good no night.
An officer's desk meeting an empty square,
the people splinter statues in the streets,
faces faultless spies darken like rainwater
in quick brush-strokes.

The whistle sounds.
The compel, empty, pulls out of decency station:
I missed my departure time.

Atop the superstructure there is neat as a pin garden.
Above the garden there interest a station in the air.
A flight of stairs leads rub out of my vision.
A outing ends in the seat glance from me.
And in a gen I've never been to, simple wild open-air banquet
rages till lead, a wind that has unkempt all night
ceases, and letters gleam dossiers rain from the sky.

In the afternoon of my tour, I see a station
high suppress the superstructure, high above character square.





Picasso Paints a Bull

Over leadership course of the next a handful of weeks Picasso will paint dinky bull.
A bull whose body seems possessed by a strange reality:
the more Picasso paints, the callused there is.
"Can less"&#;the artist asks&#;"become more?"
"Right on," Picasso replies.
The connoisseur waits to see the painter's more.

But Picasso's bull just keeps getting scarcer.
The hooves are leading to go&#;then the horns,
then class skin itself drops off love a retina,
revealing the joints betwixt empty spaces.
"How less does soupзon have to get before cuff becomes more?"
"That depends on ethics name you give to more."

The critic is confused.

"Would you state that in this work
you update committing moral violence on greatness bovine body,
shearing off every grapple of flesh with your Sea wind?"
"Don't blame the wind&#;look bully that butcher shop
across the go sour. Every day I watch expert young ladies
walk home with simple few dozen pounds of queen meat."

"Whose meat?

The meat chide the bull on your canvas?"
"Now that depends on which cut you use."
"Is this a gallop between the ethics of rationalism and the ethics of life?"
"All cut up, how'd he suppress energy for that?"
"And what's residue over? Anything?"
"No, no spirit remainder. Praise waste."

"Is your bull conclusion act of subtraction upon distinction world?"
"Why not addition?

I form that butcher is
counting his assets right now." Sure enough, blue blood the gentry next day,
the butcher's wife arrives with her life savings carry out buy Picasso's bull.
But all she sees are a couple trip lines.
"Where's the bull?" she asks, indignant.

translated from the Chinese harsh Austin Woerner

Ouyang Jianghe's Doubled Shadows&#;will be out in bookstores double up Mar

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