Chen Chen

Have the sleepwalking deer returned?
Are those their bluish hoof-prints, their crowns

of bone? Has the lost jockey returned? I think
I can hear him, racing between

the lung-shaped trees. Has the cartographer’s
grandmother walked back

through those trees? Is the wait
over? Is that a letter from Fernando Pessoa

or the one I need? Has Antarctica returned?
Is that you, Antarctica, trying so hard

to make it back to me? & if so, what will I do?
Will I just have to make room?

Do I have any left? Are all my old shoes
walking back up the back steps of my house?

Did they ever leave or was that only
a sad song I sang once?

Has the Russian driving coach
returned from his long cigarette break?

Has he come back to yell at me for every mistake,
Do you want to be in the life

or in the death?
Has Chen Chen returned? & if not, when

will he? It’s time someone told him
the red hat he loved

is no longer his. The lonely weatherman
took it & wears it, most every day.