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A Sketch of Macao as Land of The Lotos-eaters |
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by Christopher Kelen
far hills gather
grow into the grey
few now the days
mountains lean over
the town
gone walking
at words
with itself
trees have left
no trace
*
river of set suns
come to the boil
in the tides' caracass
the slow cranes' rise
this is a city of smoke
this is the land
of the lotos eaters
*
ashore
as stray shipping come
mist clears
and the centuries dismasted
hove in view
the men could not
be lured back to benches
the rain learnt its trade
on these streets
*
they are worn down to this
each ends in harbour, mast, grimy moon
each surface bears its shining world
balm in my branches
the breeze I begin
on days when you can smell the sea
the tense and press of flesh
then something
steers us toward
miscegenation
*
and after brothel neon pure
though we give it another name
shouting with this fist of moon
the chips are down
no call to breathe here
no star to pierce the gloom
sunset will outlast the bridges
a child's kite passes beyond |