The river trundles softly ahead of me,
Whilst I perch at the edge under a tree,
But I think now, how much of this is to be,
How bad do I want to know? I’d argue; I’d plea.
I step closer on the ledge,
Teetering on my toes overhanging the edge,
It is here my feet into the sand I wedge,
How bad is really what I pledge?
My book fell then, from the pocket at my breast,
Landing face up on the river, open at the best,
Page 39, I spotted and had usually stressed,
Yellow Crane Tower, Cui Hao’s finesse.
Yet it sank to the bottom of the riverbed,
Three hundred poems, bristling with inspiration, dead,
Yet when I wake from my slumber in my own bed,
I am filled, for the day, with some instinctual dread.