The Radiator
If the distant chill were a language
my first metaphor in the September would surely be my jacket, a veil
of my warm homeland, shivering in the room floating high in the air
carefully, the floor undulated, each step making the space tilt toward
the white rectangular panel with vertical furrows, a strange ornament
in the new world, I pulled open the quiet windows—an eloquent gush
of autumn wind, embracing my mind with the bracing imagination of
the Yellow River, dreamily real, like those squirrels with lyrical tails
frolicking with wonder, the muse, flying the broad birds whose wings
the grayish sky slashed open, and so came the downy rain, ploughing
my skin, a sedate patch of land scattered with goosebumps, vibrating
amid the cold surging from the North, a finger germinated gently and
punctuated my vision—the bright panel, cut along the murmurs from
a reticent climate, the panel on which I had wanted to hang my towel
a blushing symbol that radiated heat, its valve had long been waiting
to be rotated, the valve of memory