Did the man you met in Hong Kong
tell you of the sparkles, falling behind your eyes? Did he tell
you that
souls are easily distilled into green tea,
and tongues can be plucked out and served with monkey-feet
and cinnamon as delicacy;
that strangers will pay steep money to sit in a tight booth,
swirling at the noir on their plate, the chopsticks held awkwardly
in less enlightened hands? Did he pull you
into a corner
hung with strange hollow buildings, all the plastic pulled
tight over the eyelid windows; did he reach
inside you and find
god?
the last pavilion 