There is only one rule in hyper-
linkage, to wit, you do not refer to
yourself. Keeping that in mind in
this paradise of cut-and-paste is
an endless deferral. This is a poem,
not a website. Outside it is raining.
Your words are always blue and
underlined, not the blue of an eye
nor an atmosphere. This freedom—
now any word may be a sign for any
thing—disturbs me. I weary of
traversing Edens. Contractions.
I stroll through the nearby garden
(sky's another shade of blue now),
I book a reading room in the library,
I wonder when our paths will next
fork towards each other. My novels
talk to each other, making essays.
Who can speak in hyperlink?
I can only say a name, sometimes
sounding like the ozone breeze post-
pour, sometimes like a knife wound,
furtive, again, like a touch typist alone
in a room, again, again, and again.
There are no
A subtle twist of
fingers and images
merit in my mind.
This black box—
second skin, third
eye, fourth wall—
is a kind of loss.
Brothers and Sisters
Sitting around a table we raise
mediations like glasses, like shields.
We discuss personalities, compare
love languages, psychoanalyse.
We are lions, roaming concrete
jungles, filling abstract appetites,
dreaming of wrenching tendon,
oil off robot’s back, desire machine.
Inserting protuberances into
orifices we mouth mummified love.
Our sinews wrapped about each
other; this slow, untwisting thread.
After Octavio Paz
Tall tree in the ear
gardened in grace—
when you burst this brittle
pot, will I, now broken,
learn how to listen,
lie face down,
bury my head in the richest
earth, and, mouth
full, go praising
Tse Hao Guang is interested in form and formation, creativity and quotation, lyrics and line breaks. His poetry has appeared in QLRS, Prairie Schooner, Softblow and Third Coast, amongst other venues. He has a chapbook, hyperlinkage (Math Paper Press, 2013), and is working on a full-length collection, tentatively titled Belonging.