What’s our’s
The areca clad hills scrolling past the windows The marbled gorge The fertile land We can’t own it
Nor even the hours Half drugged on tour guide prattle
Haggling and buying Clicking away We pass time Otherwise wasted Gathering images, tastes, pumpkin seed biscuits, pineapple tarts, Bean cakes already mouldy…
What’s really ours?
The alley in moonlight your hand in mine A shared bowl of dumplings sticky and sweet A ying-yang ocean seen through the mist
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