Brief as a fly's
wingbeat. Eyeflash
a dead man speaks.
The Taoist magician beats
his cymbal beneath a full moon;
he leads them all
to their tombs --
hop, hop, hop.
Lanterns strung high
floating red globes
above the street.
Rung twice, a bronze bell repeats
the signal calling the townsmen
to the bright hall.
Spring again.
Cold raindrops.
Take my hand. Let's walk
down a peopled block.
Above the fortuneteller's head:
a cold gray trace of ghosts we've fled.
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