壹
Rain arrives first.
By the time you cross the courtyard
the stone is already wet.
Leaves on stone.
Water moving
from tile to tile.
The door: still closed.
The door: still closed.
两
Two walls make a passage.
At the far end—
red, then gold—
not the gate
but the distance kept
before the gate.
Lanterns bowed slightly
with rain.
三
The hutong before waking.
A bowl struck once
somewhere beyond the lane.
A yellow bicycle angled
toward a street
not carrying anyone yet.
Brick taking back
the last of the dark.
Only time remaining visible
a moment longer.
四
Water appearing
between cedar branches.
A man waiting
where the stone path ends.
Beyond him,
the lake continuing
into weather.
The city does not hand you
what you came looking for.
It gives corridor,
threshold,
stone—
everything living
between yourself
and arrival.
In Beijing,
this passes
for generosity.