Your ease of step and untrembling hand,
caught between versions of my shadow,
have rendered me useless.
There are pens that have no means of expression,
sheets of paper hunger for touch
          to the point of aching.
You have made me a poet who hates words.
                    (I have no use for them.)
The language in which I love you
lacks form to gain definition. Unpronounceable by sound.
Only by fingers drawn out by the sun,
          living blades of grass.
Only by lips grown sweet as peeled lychee fruit,
          broken until tasted.
Only by breath that remembers its beginnings,
          believing in its own reincarnation.
                    (Words do nothing.)
The language in which I write is an ugly tool.
Sharpened corners force the poet to remove
one word after another, revising thoughts hopeless
as rainstorms
          off the nearest cliché.
Feelings divine meaning from words.
My feelings are malnourished.
The language in which I write closes hearts too easily.
For how can I use this pen to express you? A poem
                    not fit for words.
                    Not for one, nor for thousands.
Simple poetry is worthless compared to soft moments spent
in the corners of your eyes.
The page limits me to words, but I want to write wordless odes
          to you, that can only be read by me.
          I will memorize them like they were
          the shape of your face or the curve of your back.
You are my unwritten poem brought to life.
Let me devour every poetry book in search
          of the printed version of you, love.
                    (There is reason to live.)
There is haiku in your breaths.
There are sestinas on the undersides of your wrists
          that I used to kiss to pass the time.

copyright Giles Li, 2003

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