iv.
I am bad at graphs, charts,
and calligraphy that magnifies facts.
If Hockney is not an iPad artist,
I’m not a poet of protests
but someone who cautiously writes
about Hong Kong. The city’s streets
are easy enough to navigate. Taxi
drivers say they can’t fool
passengers. But I have seen roads
blocked and signs altered creatively
to send us messages. Love
is not only conditional, relative,
but a wilful white car in a storm.
Holes in the street, window panes
on curved buildings turned yellow
with slogans you know. We know.
v.
I sit hunched on a pavement
in Wanchai, too early for a meeting
about art, poetry, photography. They
have repeatedly drawn our attention
to neon signs that glow
but throw no shadows that footsteps
can make explicit. My fellow citizens
walk home after work, purposeful
but, in truth, directionless,
in anticipation of a sofa that lets
them linger maskless. I slalom
between moving cars and trip
over the wheels of parked ones.
Chewing gum blackened on every street
testifies to our troublesome existence.
If there’s a tomorrow, it’s already here.
vi.
There’s a hurricane path
cutting through everyone’s mind;
we’re all a little insane now. An eel
trained to needle through penetrating
thoughts. People say our belts
are fastened too tight in this part
of the world; freedom is only free
when guaranteed. We frame
everything like Zoom windows;
restaurant tables partitioned
with makeshift dividers, on mathematical
principles. I’m convinced it’s art,
worthy of permanent international
exhibitions. The food deliveryman asks,
‘Are these coins clean?’ Laundry day
comes again. Dust settles.
