Reading Ou Yang Hsiu in a Café

There is a flying pig on the mural.
I find this mildly comforting,
as if the cosmos were reminding me
an impossibility had been possible,
by a viewer like me.
It is a damp autumn afternoon.
The waiters are busy watching soccer on TV
and the impenetrable depth of my espresso is like the Loch Ness.
I am lucky. I have no dead friends like Ou Yang Hsiu.
But I have lost friendships over the years,
some drifted apart like hulking icebergs.
The past is sometimes a desolate chunk of Greenland.

Greg Santos
Paris, France
November 26, 2010

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