by Feng

I have a friend who tells me
in his sharp blue western sensibility,
of a simplicity of happiness
that is so light and fresh
it is within my grasp.
You can have it, he said,
please take it.
And he held it in his hands
like a bowl of water
and he wanted
to wash my face with it.
How nice that would be,
to have a clean face.
It would feel
so pure in the half winter.
But I did not take it.
Keep it, I said, it’s yours.
I want to believe that it belongs to some people
but not to others.
I am devoted to a strange horse
who needs brushing many times a day
and I am in love with her.
This dream in the night,
how the horse’s back curves in the
virtual moonlight,
that set of blood-ragged lungs,
that raw texture of consciousness
begging to be smeared with mud.
I lead her to the water
and bury my nose in her softness.
Her eyes are white.
She will impale me.
I have refused happiness
many times for this.
Something dark and flat in the water
slowly rising
and with no end.


feng sun chen


painting by z. beksinski