“…but the face remains.”
—Hua Xi, “The Beauty Passes but the Beauty Remains”
I help my sister shop for wedding rings,
weighing between preference and perception.
The hour says no pressure, but the minute hand feels it.
I try to remember if it was the philosopher or the demon
who asked that, if given the chance, would you live your life
again, exactly as it is? Paintbrush in exacting, arthritic hand,
Renoir said that the pain passes but the beauty remains.
In prose: I’ve been told kindly
that I need to make more money. The market
proves itself cruel each morning, and all that is inside
me has been realized like a stock, a garden.
My talents fall onto people’s hearts like rain,
drying beneath the inevitable sun.
For a single nod, a pair of eyes,
all passes and the beauty remains.
The face remains. Departing by train,
one ear hears nothing. The other feels
water all the way through, a ringing.
I have little cuts I don’t remember earning,
the pink marks of insects that live only for a day.
Every time I asked for a sign, I got one:
The dirt warmed by yesterday’s light,
the sea cooling late in autumn.
I can’t look out the window forever, I’m told,
but I keep trying.
