Blackbirdan online journal of literature and the artsSpring 2012 v11n1
 print version

Snow Down in Hong Kong

Ergo-gangs are raping the seafarer Bernadette
in the blue clay field,
sparks flying from the mouth of the night bear
where Istanbul is washed in riversongs
of men punished before, during, and after judgment,

or is this just Aquinas bloodied, peeing
in arcs into the darkest brush bucket—
canaries made of yellow sugar on the tree branch,
a woman weeping into an open sandwich,

the children have thrown gasoline back at the militia
with fat ponds of crying-gas to drown in,
a new moon begins its search of integers
like belief crossing the burning night streets. These numbskulls

never had to cheat at canasta, their lives
replete with dead Greeks,
their bodies being washed in fragrant oils
by the mystery thieves of data. It was slavery then, Aquinas,
with prawns and gongs, it was wrong then, you bastards—
it was sundown in Hong Kong.    

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