You and I: we could do
some sort of damage, set fire to
brackish drifting cedar,
light up ice-night starring roles
with wording parchment,
with rushing creak of rivers' aged bend.
Something might have caught like
copper cable signals, struck up
the glassy-growing shadow theatre,
from crept light in corner's rooming,
could have blotched out from spilling
drywall finish, tin-metal shading.
We, you and I, could be
a sorted construction, bare bones
and winding bedsheet twine, but,
then, it's already tomorrow in Hong Kong
and the days pass in lotus flowertinting, maple-sap slow in retrospect.