Arthur Sze, "Fugitive"

Red begonias stricken by frost –
listen: they nail plywood sheets and complete the garage decking–
swarmed by mosquitoes, you wander hot, thirsty, disoriented in a palm forest–
you have blooded your hands on barbed wire–
after a snowfall, you inhale starlight while standing in an orchard–
you have had three operations to repair a torn elbow–
green mist rising from leafing willows–
running across a dune of white sand, you discover a pile of oryx bones–
they stack elephant tusks in a pyramid and set them on fire–
you have staggered out of a house in flames and lived to say this–
you have been thrust by rifle butt to a river and heard someone shout, "Swim!"–
the grass turns to yellow-gold stalks–
minutes replete with the noise of honeybees–
minutes replete with river gold–
asleep, she rides the waves of her breath onto the shore of your shoulder–
you coil hoses and haul them to a barn–
you have loved, hated, imagined, despaired, and the fugitive colors existence have quickened in your body–
after seventy years, you write with shivering memory into the sunrise–

In the August 7 New Yorker