It is 1945 and the bicycle 
turns on wheels without

spokes. At the end of the
street is a woman, hands

glazed with peanut brittle,
asking us to buy a miracle. 

$4.53, the corn syrup stills
when left to its natural state.

The heavy yolk seeds through
its spine, spreads faster than 

the wok can carry. The sound
of China bounces off the side-

walk, impervious to ruin. She
chases dogs from the pall of

the tongkat, as if those silver
threads should snap at any 

given moment. 

//

In Chinatown, a man looks
left and right before closing

the shutters for the day. Some-
one says 枪 and 抢

like surely one is better than
the other? But someone said 

饿and 恶 and we’d beaten him
into a pulp. Someone said you

can’t put a price on a person
but their niece had cholera and

I can tell you, it was $4.53. 
If we exfoliated this argument, 

Should we become tender 
as a left hook on purpose?

枪 and 抢: Was it better to die from
lack or by the mouth of another?

The secret societies drive their silver 
cars through the streets, 

chasing their silver threads. 

In a day, we’d hope to
be more alive. 

Through the eyehole of the 
corner store, its chain-mail and lock,

the things that push us
to the brink.