Come dip a quill into my bones
and draw with blood upon the stones
a liquid song, each note bequeathed
by mother tongues (and lips and teeth),
held hostage by a primal urge,
creating wakes that sound the dirge.
I swell and swoon, and rise and break--
a tide of titles, tales, and ranks.
A wartime trumpet of the swan
must take a shape to carry on.
Oh, who still peddles Grecian urns?
Whose marrow boils till it burns,
whose watermark upon the flock
is still just water on a rock.

Ming

soaring on the jet stream of a million heirs,

you pluck your quiver from our feather'd hearts, 

invisible impact retrieved and irretrievable,
leaving us gaping, whole.

you buried your bright baubles in our brambles,

raven in a bamboo grove,

sucking out all the marrow.

we won’t backslide

I can say everything better now that you’re dead