by John Zheng
The lighthouse wakes from its daydream,
yawning and arm-stretching its beam
to the sea surging and splashing in darkness.
Schools of stars swim here and there,
leaping, swirling and splashing
while boats loll side by side at a dock
like Siamese cats. The moon sails up
like a mailboat on its way to deliver
a message to be read by its gazers.
Waves of wind and mountains of clouds
disappear into sky’s black grand drapes
which are tugged or pulled now and then
by mischievous meteors, their zips
of light unzipping moments of delights.
John Zheng teaches at Mississippi Valley State University, where he edits Valley Voices: A Literary Review. He is the author of A Way of Looking, Enforced Rustication and The Landscape of Mind. He has received two artist fellowships from the Mississippi Arts Commission. His poetry has appeared in journals, including Arkansas Review, Louisiana Literature and Mississippi Review. Read his previous poems in Deep South here.