Before a word is understood, a feeling arrives.
It begins as a quiet tension—the sense that the world you know is about to tilt, gently yet irrevocably, toward revelation. This is the space inhabited by Cathy Xinman’s poetry: a territory where time analyzes the soul, where streets turn to gold not by magic, but by the slow burn of attention, and where the heart meets its own reflection in the face of the future.
Her poems move to the rhythm of thought itself—now flowing, now fractured—carrying you from the intimate ache of a private silence to the roaring parade of an existence that demands to be felt.
If you have ever longed for language to bridge the everyday and the eternal, or wondered what it might feel like when love becomes a dangerous and beautiful mission—your arrival here is no accident.
Turn the page. Let the meeting begin.
Today, Like Yesterday, Has Gone Far Away
By Cathy Xinman
I lie in daylight, and time enters,
analyzing me and my clarity.
The street is golden—no,
it’s the leaves sun-scorched to gold.
Quiet branches sway,
with such pride.
It’s morning now, I think—no,
I hope.
I want my time back, come back, come back.
No one knows what’s happening.
I can’t resent innocence.
I’ve only just met the morning,
we’ve only just said good morning.
Though it’s bright outside,
I can’t envy the road’s tough body—
it too lies in daylight,
bearing cars, sports cars, motorcycles.
And then, the sudden parade of people.
They use sound, color, arms, and…
my silence.
What do I have? Too late.
Like a self-deceiving confession full of drums,
heart-tearing, lung-rending.
Today, like yesterday, has gone far away.
