He was unmistakably Chinese, his tongue

slanted and his stomach blushed.

There was a certain thickness to his method:

he would glue his materials to his body

for exactly 21 days prior to working,

and meditate exclusively upon criminal matters.

No phone calls, no music, only the tree frogs

which he had pinned to a polished apple… .

During that painful gestation period his mother

referred to him as “the inert seed.” She dangled

her breast in front of his eyebrows and said,

“That’s not my Son. Ink, all he thinks about

is ink.”

And yet there was a blueprint on his hips,

his knees were strengthened with wood.

His neck was draped in a sublime, reddish paper,

his teeth were outlined in cardboard.

He was going some place venomous eventually.

Unless there is something he has overlooked.

Is he overcome by jealousy?

Unless his faith weakens at the moment of flowering,

he is besieged by errors, or his flair

turns on him, destructive, and a raven

is permitted to decide his fate.

Is he seldom comforted, is he compelled

and radiant, aroused and honest

and innocent of financial incentives?

He is.

When Wu Hui prepared to place the aureole

about the head of a divinity, silent crowds

gathered in awe to watch his flawless lightning swish.

And during the night he slept in a transparent coffin

made of glass.