poem: tourist

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?

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