Washing Doorknobs
By Jane Hirshfield
The glass doorknobs turn no differently.
But every December
I polish them with vinegar water and cotton.
Another year ends.
This one, I ate Kyoto pickles
and touched, in Xi’ an, a stone turtle’s face
cold as stone, as turtle.
I could not read the fortune carved into its shell
or hear what it had raised its head
to listen for, such a long time.
Around it, the madness of empires continued,
an unbitted horse that runs for a thousand miles
between grazing.
Around us, the madness of empires continues.
How happy we are,
how unhappy we are, doesn’t matter.
The stone turtle listens. The famished horse runs.
Washing doorknobs, one year enters another.
Thanks to JoEllen Moldoff
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