Wang Wei                              

 

 

I ask the mirror, the dishwasher.

I ask my hand on the worm-holed apple in the spindly tree. 

I ask the grocery cart I pull apart from the tight row

against the green wall at the market.

I ask the sticker on the utility pole, the one that reads

Fuck Elon Musk.

I ask my lost breath.  

I ask Wang Wei.

The ghost of a Chinese poet is bound to know.

“Lotus leaves dance behind the fisherman’s boat,” he answers.