Li Po woke at three a.m. believing
the moonlight, spilled at the foot of his bed,
 
was snow – that snow meant mountains, home,
ink-soaked skies, and the way his mother's voice
 
made morning of his name.  A thousand years
and the Chinese repeat it still: same poem, same
 
untethered gaze, same mother, home, unembraceable
moonlight melting into reed mats like a dusting of
 
anguished snow.  Three a.m., and I woke this morning
with a brushstroke of moonlight across the blue
 
carpet beside my bed.  I mistook it for
Chinese poetry.  It was only the sound of
 
a thousand years laughing softly.  So:
write something down in that damned
 
notebook of yours; sip your tea slowly;
and phone your mother.