Two Poems
Begins Mid-Way
Writers take stories from city to city.
Some people read in the airport, about cruelty,
‘unforgivable havoc’. The night heaves into day,
windows juxtapose. Only the cushions,
overnight, fall silent. Chinese calligraphy
meets full-gear missions.
It is impossible to replicate a certain kind of love –
every political movement has a unique tune.
We are each a pair of parentheses,
an outgrown womb, explicit.
Our flesh takes on additional hues. The tongues
learn new and swiftly crystallised slogans.
At some point, behind closed gates,
some are missing. No right nouns
or verbs can narrate hidden chronology.
Sentences about us begin mid-way; enough
light comes through. Enough hope.
We continue to be with this city.
Sometimes a Dream
In a dream my body
is large. Tables stacking up on me,
people feast while I watch.
My eyes sprout fingers.
In another dream you enter
my dream, me. You say we are
both dreamt up by another you
somewhere else eating a walnut.
A third dream hosts
only defaced books.
Some characters remain:
door, mouth, vagina, opening.
Sometimes a dream forgets
it is a dream. It unfolds a scroll
of ancient calligraphy.
Millions of people, water flows.
Image © 香港連儂牆 Lennon Wall Hong Kong
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