No Xi’an Here
Face leaning forward, slightly lowered, he
Has dignity, an Oriental kind,
The way the eye is held ceramically
When looking at a Chinese vase in bind
Of glaze and beauty. This richest skin
Of mellowing vellum colors, but still strong
As handmade paper painted when the Chin
Were throned in yellow silk, makes him belong
As far away as centuries caught on scrolls.
His hair and brows shine dark, a nylon black,
As if designed to be on Chinese dolls.
He makes his notes, though, on a silvery Mac.
Not interested in terracotta hordes,
He’s studying famous cricketers at Lord’s.