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香 港 : Enfolded into the Sea<br />
fire in the fields nimble in its nibbled night,<br />
the breath’s palimpsest of saplings and crackled tin,<br />
you slippery in your nightgown and iridescence<br />
passing mirrors radiant of loss in the rooms and along alleys where cats bark at one another<br />
the heart mad in its spiney undoing<br />
the batons and umbrellas and boiled noodles bubbling as rain<br />
teeth grinding under the sheet of sleep, ghost stories and canaries from the faucets--<br />
this land<br />
later<br />
he bites your bruised lips mistaken for tenderness,<br />
you spat at him dryly but the unspooling words grew dewey and darned, your metamorphosis<br />
mistaken belief for ecumenical bargaining--<br />
the apocryphal panhandling of love, the rights stuffed in the back of the drawer<br />
a house burned down and language left in the shape of a key, dangling<br />
later,<br />
she licks his panicked ears, hinder<br />
alchemy a tongue risen from the sea:<br />
lemongrass, star anise, dill, beefbones, temple incense<br />
weeds from the hills: Luo Sang Tang<br />
singing scent stirring a skeletal rhyme, the laundry of love<br />
finally,<br />
her kisses ripen by relic and briny depth<br />
abloom in an algae night<br />
neither longed for poetry but carved stanzas into each other,<br />
rooms filled with argot and cloudy articulation, Nazca lines,<br />
the panoramic view above their bodies<br />
an early-winter Saturday and an elongating amid snow,<br />
fall away desert love, fall away--<br />
coincidental?<br />
later<br />
he guides her face through the shipwreck of his ribs<br />
her fingers trace gold circles on his jaw, ecumenically<br />
they seed the struck wounds of bruise that came from the street, quick as light<br />
And the earth and their burdens folded into the sea.<br />
for two poets: Amang Hong and TimTim Cheng
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