Eleven Steps to Becoming a Poet of the T'ang Dynasty
Scrawl your frail, black bones of poems
on the backs of junk mail envelopes.
Use only pens you have stolen
from banks. Let the lines of old poets
hum like late-night traffic through your head.
Write letters to your long dead friends,
and dream of bright, pink azaleas.
Walk for miles with gravel in your shoes.
Every year, dig a hole in the yard
then bury some small thing you love.
At least once, you must fall to the ground
in a rainstorm after midnight;
you must crawl toward a puddle's white surface.
You must drink the moonlight down.