Li Po and I drink martinis,

discuss how you can crave

for a poppy to blossom, and wham,

a thunderstorm barges in,

breaks petals. We mourn

ruined peonies that heavy rain

also shatters. Woozy Li Po

curls up on my sweatpants.

As I stroke his head, rain

beats harder–his poem

takes shape as he dreams,

will flower after he loses

his hangover. He’ll present it

to any mountain or moon

who stops to listen.

Last updated on Thursday, February 8th, 2007 .