Bill’s Constellations
for Billy Collins
Whatever actually happened at Yang-ping’s house
during that winter, there were seasons before and after
in which nothing happened. Rowboat’s skiffled along
rain-washed river bottoms, rocky but not impassable.
There wasn’t always a drunken moon or salty stars
in a black bowl of sky. A heron followed the boat
seeking clues about the lady in the wide-brimmed hat,
a blue ribbon trailing the wind like its mate’s feathers.
The tail of Scorpio slashed the wild sky. The woman
blinded by icy stars, could have been mistaken for a wizened
Chinaman, thousands of years old. The silent river spilled
no secrets about temptation or regret. The woman who navigated
these waters held a compass that could turn her boat around,
change to any direction. She planted her long legs solidly
on its wooden floor, a book open and faced down
beside her written by a man who’d traveled similar waters.
Many winters before, too many to record in a hand-painted chart,
a Chinaman paddled a river, his oars dripping stars.
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