Y

yes, yes, with your

yellowish skin, you enjoy

meditation within the shape of

a wishbone, inside the broken wing

of an oriental bird strayed, or

in a larger sense, you look like

    the surfacing tail of a pacific whale

        who yells low, lower than the Yellow Emperor

but whose voice reaches afar

far beyond a whole continent, to a remote village

near the yellow river, where you used to sunbathe

rice stems, reed leaves, cotton skeletons

with a fork made of a single horn-shaped twig

before you fled the village, tightly yoked

with the imbalance between yin and yang

on the other side of this new world

that is why you have ever since then been

obsessed with the letter