I miss you, Chen says
to me but not about me
In the ghost-city of bondaged
light sniffing cold concrete
.
Cell phones in a pasture
plastic surgery'd animals
collapsing on water's birthmark
.
To kiss, Chen tells me
is to recreate old wallpapers
with the right person, she says
.
It's like an aerial of one hundred and thirty seven jellyfish
a kaleidoscope of colour
relaxing muscles you never noticed were there
.
Until they slept
to be rained on by someone you love
is to become a zoomorphic calligram
.
In vending machine glows
home's homeless soul, in contrast,
was filled with jazzlike nature
.
"In which the removal of imperfection destroys the person herself,"
Chen says and watches
two hands connect via bridges of boy-sap
.
Fox cries were simple, cop sirens
I love you here, Chen says
but I can't survive in the wifi
.
The ideal violence is nostalgia
like kitten teeth
the past within the babushka doll of the present
.
Nothing is like the runny yolk
of where I'm from
every day was like floating down streams
.
But our hands will never be clean
they can only be cleaner
a tribute to the gift of flaws
.
Not everyone born from the cosmic egg
is so easily blessed
but look how large your wings are!
.
There are many things we can still see
through the wreckage of the city
they see us in return
.
I'm still in this sex-dance, says Chen
with everything I've ever seen
the naked eye is still a nude