MoonlightI know when the sun is in Chinabecause the night shining other-lightcrawls into my bed. She is moon.Her eyes slit and yellow she is the lastone out of a dingy bar in Albuquerque—Fourth Street, or from similar avenuesin Hong Kong. Where someone else has alsoawakened, the night thrown back and asked,'where is the moon, my lover'?And from here I always answer in my dreaming,'the last time I saw her was in the armsof another sky'.

I am alwaysin danger.

These are the ones who escapeafter the last hurt is turned inward;they are the most dangerous ones.

Because who would believethe fantastic and terrible story of all of our survivalthose who were never meant to survive?

I release you, fear, because you holdthese scenes in front of me and I was bornwith eyes that can never close.

All cultures and peoples turn to poetry during times of celebration, transformation and challenge—those times when ordinary language cannot carry meaning beyond our understanding.

Poetry keeps the door open to awe and ensures that we will find our way through the broken heart field of wars, losses and betrayals to understanding, compassion and gathering together.

You savored each story they told you,and rememberedthe way the stars entered your bloodat birth.

You took me onceto an older part of earthI'd never seen—where monsters were bornand killed.They sacrificed everythingand nothingfor a taste of thislife.