China falls
under hoof and arrow
                                    like a prelude
to your new white skin,
and the conqueror goes down on his knees
again                again                     again,

                                    because tonight
I’ll cut you out of porcelain
or snow or stone,
                           and say that this is love,
cleanse your body in the clear cold river,
              in the morning, I’ll drag you through the mud,

and I’ll cut arrows like perfect desires
                          and fire them at the raindrops,
at the things you say
and empty the rivers of China
                         into the echo that remains.