In memory of John Crowe Ransom
Visitors arrive at Han Shan’s house,
Exclaiming the distance they’ve traveled
To reach his address and of how
The chairboys’ feet bled on the way.
They found him, they say, in cyberspace,
A mode of discovery the old man knows
Nothing about. He offers wine and gives each
Of his guests a poem on fine rice paper,
Which they fold and put away in carryalls,
Still talking of distance and wonders
Of modern science, ignoring the credentials
Han has framed and hung about in easily
Observable places. After they are gone,
Still talking and waving back to him,
The good agrarian poet drinks tea from
His blue cup and stands at the South
Window, sniffing the scent of warm
Roses wafted from beyond the plantation
Of pecan trees edging the bottom
Of his herb garden.
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