In this year of China’s moon,
there ends a life too soon.

On the cliff’s outcropping I stand,
not yet daring the mile-down view.
I wait for the scene seekers to disperse,
then pin this sorry note to the grappling tree.

You see,
I cannot shake them.
Like brain bees they buzz.
Dark stories they tell, without end.

All help seemed too busy with life.

Now, I will walk backwards,
fixing on the air’s horizon,
leaving no room for second thought.

I will count the paces.
Ten, twenty, thirty.
I will wait for the surge of crazy strength.
I will run, arms wheeling,
and be gone.

Good person,
I hope to make the river,
winding in the sun’s silver,
to spare you the sight’s abomination:
my pile of jellied bones,
entrails of pastel,
abalone membranes.

If the punctured eyes contrive a stare,
it is not accusatory-
only a mirror
of a hell that slowly did go by.