Doug Anderson: Monsoon

Yesterday I pulled a dead man
out of the swollen river.

No one knows him.
The clouds crowd the mountains

and more rain will come.
We have pulled the boats

ashore and huddle in our huts.
Up river, the rich

are counting their gold
and hiring armies to protect them.

I think of the Yue warrior
with his tattooed face,

glancing quickly at the lord
he’d like to kill

and rake all that gold
into his helmet.

We’ve forgotten wisdom.
What was it?

All those books in the scribe’s
chamber and he trembles.

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