smog

translated by PLS

wind hurries from the end of winter

stops on the seventh day—

rust swarms the pendulum

drowsiness is the last testimony of the year

fields crumble in the mist

skeletons of a bridge sink to the ground

snores bend the grasses

the abodes of villagers

disperse slowly

for they’re emptied of their content

dust is the sole anchor

mountains, a slice of peeled sky

wind speechless among the cracks

we cross the Qing river

our shadows wrestling against the water

under the sun creased into a ladder

each step is a measurement of the mist