Poem for a long-lost friend
It starts as a line on a paper the size of a stamp
And eventually compiles detail and direction
Into trails, avenues, settlements, named places
Sometimes the choice is not the path
But the chasm around which edge we inch carefully
Our backs to some unclimbable stone
One day I woke and like a blanket on the bed
The map of my life, where distance is measured
In years not miles, had got so large I had to fold it
And the myth of depth closed in on itself,
Parts of my life decades apart touched as I kept
Folding it so it could be held in one hand
Or a pocket. Childhood friend, meet this latest
Version of me, these faint lines on so large a landscape.
Translations from the English 
Ah, Jeff, sometimes it feels as if you’ve burrowed through my skull and retrieved feelings and memories directly through my cortex. This is one of those times.
…a-and there is the back cover blurb for my next book. Thank you!
“Parts of my life decades apart touched as I kept
Folding it so it could be held in one hand
Or a pocket.”
Which trip to Nanjing, which me, was that?
You’ve drawn this from deepest wells, Jeff.