brown grass
in Zizhuyan Park—
magpie’s harsh cry
hint of snow to come
but still Great Dragon Wall
is manned by tourists
ranks of cracked pots—
a jigsaw army waits
in the yellow earth
frozen slush lines
the shore of Qinghai Lake—
waves not waves
chorus of snoring
on the Sky Train to Lhasa—
cold stars blaze outside
yak butter candles
send smoke to the heavens—
holy stink for our clothes
mother and son
beg from car to car
at Shanghai traffic lights
