In the shells of abandoned
Chinese cities, nomads
are making camp. I read
it on the internet. Their
yurts are embroidered
blue like open sky
in winding patterns
that reanimate the ghosts
of an ancient horde.
There are whispers in Beijing
that the great Khan himself
is come again and already
at night one can hear
the galloping of ten thousand
horses. He will sweep
in from the north but
there will be no fracture
this time. Within
the month, he will
be feasting in New York
and soon Paris, I think.
He has gardens
to uproot. I think
of tubers and
the image of retreat
—or is it return?
No blame.
πολυφλοίσβοιος 