Day Four
On the fourth day I am crystal clear.
I step lightly.
I am an arctic god.
I slur no being, crack no shells.
I am vodka and ice in a quartz prism.
Day four is translucent,
a star-black taxi ride into daylight.
Glittering talk spills from my glass.
I speak in thunder-music.
My friends are radiant, they converse
in a silver patois
known only to the Dancing Masters of Woo
and their cats.
A Cantonese girl group,
the nightclub somewhere on the edge of town
After their candied love-songs,
we take them
on a rickshaw weave
to the Portuguese villages.
Dinner by the Pearl River,
a small cheap hotel.
In the morning
her face is as blank as a worn coin.
Snail trails glitter the sheets.
I am drunk again.
On the fifth day,
icebergs melt in the Outer Harbor,
I wander the back-streets of Macao
until I am robed.
The ferry to Hong Kong
is delayed by fog-laced dreams.
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