Love in the Time of War
(for Wei-ch'in Lin)
  
Reactions of skin to the Cultural
Revolution.  Six years of exhaustive
industry:  grenades and a glimpse of wild
duck wings.  My fingerprints shaping the class
of our motorcycle contingent.  He
laughed in the grass at the Peach Blossom
Memorial, touching the gold laments
of flowers. Holding me, we lingered
 
with a renaissance on our hands. Sliding
ourselves into the cool wound of the sky.
Luminous as bullets. Hair polished
solid with sweat.  Our bare metal humming.
Afterwards, letting the world bend to us
in a forbidden crescent of prayer.