Who's that one in the Gang who's so quiet?
In a prison cell's ideal darkness
I watch the fingernails of the mandarin grow
until he trims them to the claws of kites.
His courtyard isolates circles of sound
meanwhile, from concentric streets
in which history focuses. (Today I stapled
paper straps on sandals, yesterday
entered clandestine messages on bellies
of toy trains en route to Hong Kong--
fixing the parasol in the hand
of the painted courtesan, however,
is what I hate doing the most,
her feet too small for kanjis.)
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