Yáng Zhū Maddens Mèngzî

Black heavens, how humans hate

The obvious, like a sore

In the mouth that the tongue probes

While the mind is somewhere else,

Always going somewhere else.

I’m as guilty as the rest,

And probably you are, too.

That we die, that the patterns

Don’t add up to narrative,

Never narrative we’d like,

That a single human hair

From a single human head

Can’t serve sacrifice to save

The world—could be sacrificed—

Will be sacrificed—Won’t serve.