The newborn moon blooms in the cherry orchard. In Hong Kong. Yellow and round, like a copper plate. Like a gong. My little sister with almond eyes, porcelain fingers, watches how silk weavers indifferently die on the fragile bridge railings in Hong Kong.
Rye whiskey is sweet.
Shadows on thin silk waver like hollow reeds in a faint aquarelle. The bread of famine sticks in the throat. Shadows wander from gray suburbs through the marijuana smoke of the cafe like puppets. And the moon blooms yellow in the desert. In the harbor.