After 1980, Southern China

 

In the morning I was standing on Fuyong Pier when

the oystered aroma from Kowloon vented

through the cathaya trees, whiffling against these 

evergreens. Knowing that it's just another day in 

the country-side where variations of country swings

lace on top of one another, I set out into the sea,

net stretched. 

 

In the evening I returned and traced the silhouette of

the Hong Kong skylines from a distance, the lights

so bright, cleaving up the coagulated moist air. 

I travel across the mud carpeted pavement with the 

sounds of construction already drowning out the cacophony 

of darting swallows; it’s a city losing allegiance to nature. 

 

Perhaps Hong Kong has cast its shadow upon us, or 

Tudi Gong simply has lost his temper, that night a flood 

from the West washed in, gnashing through the fishnets and 

boats starting with the appearance of the two golden 

arches on Dong Men Street. 

 

As the flooding eased, the Western wind still lingered 

with the hymns of Bob Dylan – “You're invisible now, 

you've got no secrets to conceal.”