← v12n2, Fall 2013
Poetry · Volume 12, Number 2

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,

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.