'I wanted to be a poet
terribly, and ride the train to Montmartre,
at the sun’s behest
the words would arrive on my tongue
slowly, then quickly,
like a rain of coins.
Ah, but the winter is long,
I drape myself in the flag of my country
to keep warm.
A poet is always in motion
and her hands are heavy as heaps of bronze.'

'Tonight, red lanterns deck the street for the Chinese New Year.
Tonight my heart follows its lunar calendar—
swelling to grace, returning to darkness.'