The Mahjong Player

Before me is standing an old Chinese man with white whiskers that move across his face like smoking incense - wears a yellow robe - eats a scroll of all the poems that I have written for you -Tells me that they are like the dream of a sleeping bird - I try to stop him and he raises his hand - His fingernails long as a sad opera, twirl in the air. - from between his lips and teeth a long breath like a sigh escapes, “Shhhh,” “Like the moon, the lover is a homeless player of Mahjong looking for white tiles.” - I sit at his feet - He opens his yellow robe - It is lined with the moving constellation of the Archer - be sits before me -we sit and our breathing becomes one - The night falls asleep with us - eyes half closed

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