My Crows

1/

Each time I run short of inspirations
I would try to fold the dull season
Not into a decoration
But into a bird

I always hang it high
Above my head
Like my own spirit
Like my white crow, where I
Can hear the droning complaints of
Each creature over its pain

The pity is, my senses are often too soft
To hold the shape firm

2/

After so many years
            The white crow
    I had been keeping as a pet
            Finally flew away
Without a single moment
                        Of hesitation
Through the back window
            Blown open
By a gust of sun wind
                        Last night

Into the black Brickfielder
            Rising right
Above hell

Yuan Changming published monographs on translation before leaving his native country. Currently, Yuan lives in Vancouver, where he edits Poetry Pacific with Allen Qing Yuan. Credits include ten Pushcart nominations, Best of the Best Canadian Poetry (2008-17) and BestNewPoemsOnline, among others.