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Three Poems

Three Poems HUNG HUNG (HONG HONG) a hymn to hualian Blessed is the Lord for bestowing on us these gifts we are so unworthy of receiving. The mountains of Hualian. The azure of a summer evening at the stroke of seven. Deep sleep. The broad sweep of the sea tilting out of kilter on those hairpin turns we take at sixty miles per hour. Love and transgression. His injustices. Your loveliness. the last supper I clench my fists to prevent The wounds from breaking out in advance of the event No one has the heart to speak up as you clasp your cigarette Your fingers already forming the sign of the cross But O there is a shaft of moonlight in my heart Gleaming on the garden where you will rise from the dead Each savory dish the skeptic sets before us is more delicious than the last The love songs of the infidels outside the walls reduce me to tears If there be a Judas among us It must be that side of the fish not cooked to perfection 15 With more than our fill we grow drowsy and tired And with that quite forget the sorrow les feuilles mortes http://www.deepdyve.com/assets/images/DeepDyve-Logo-lg.png Manoa University of Hawai'I Press

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Publisher
University of Hawai'I Press
Copyright
Copyright © 2003 University of Hawai'i Press.
ISSN
1527-943x

Abstract

HUNG HUNG (HONG HONG) a hymn to hualian Blessed is the Lord for bestowing on us these gifts we are so unworthy of receiving. The mountains of Hualian. The azure of a summer evening at the stroke of seven. Deep sleep. The broad sweep of the sea tilting out of kilter on those hairpin turns we take at sixty miles per hour. Love and transgression. His injustices. Your loveliness. the last supper I clench my fists to prevent The wounds from breaking out in advance of the event No one has the heart to speak up as you clasp your cigarette Your fingers already forming the sign of the cross But O there is a shaft of moonlight in my heart Gleaming on the garden where you will rise from the dead Each savory dish the skeptic sets before us is more delicious than the last The love songs of the infidels outside the walls reduce me to tears If there be a Judas among us It must be that side of the fish not cooked to perfection 15 With more than our fill we grow drowsy and tired And with that quite forget the sorrow les feuilles mortes

Journal

ManoaUniversity of Hawai'I Press

Published: May 19, 2003

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