sometime long ago

these dark lonely nights,
I begin to feel like
the Chinese poet
Li Po:
drinking wine and writing
poems
writing poems and drinking
wine

all the while
aware of the strict limitations
that come with
being
human

then
accepting that

the wine and the poems
gently
intermixing:

yup, there is a peaceable place
to be found
in this unending
war
we call life

where
things
such as
light, shadow, sound
objects

become
gently
and meaningfully
fascinating.

Li Po,
that drunk mother fucker
on his wine,
knew very well that
just to know
one thing well
was
best.