A small boat by the riverbank, so reachable
yet with separation anxiety, buoy balls twisting their shoulder blades.
Drinking alone, or with others (while trading poems),
a young Roman emperor sailed past,
overseeing his own mausoleum-in-progress.
He divulged, excused himself (the development project had stalled again).
Sediment, reeds, and crossings.
Young talents should know and embrace each other.
And the guards on duty at the power plant
watched the emperor and ministers watching
each other pass in silence on the ship.
Bitcoin and computer hackers from afar
were bewitched by the salt lake’s pattern.
Daringly, they geared up, then blitzed.
(A few lines are missing here.)
If we are wise enough
to fathom destiny’s scratches on the ship’s side,
how is it even possible
that we were trading and mingling like cubs?
Excessively mining codes and data,
someone declared, We will go abroad next year for sure!
The young emperor felt lightheaded.
Could it be a sign of a fatal illness?
It was difficult to look through a layer of oil.
Writing a postcard (to river-walkers of the future)
on water full of dead fish,
Heraclitus said,
No one ever steps in the same river twice.
(But the river itself could.)
And it becomes a kind of driving recorder.
Oh, dawnlight!
Beauty and crudeness in this world
will come and go,
soaring over high plains,
crumpled pillars, and ruins,
then pick up a duck down jacket, a giveaway.