My hands still float
Down your belly
Still sleep
In the perfect bowl
Of your hips

Bathing in the currents
Of your fecund dynamo
Generator of light
And keeper of secrets

The wheel of your womb
Its sacred meridians
Splayed out in a chakra bouquet
Like mandarin orange hooloo bunches
Splined from the vendor’s hands
In twilight in Beijing

Chinese opera
Sung in the parks
By long-time neighbors
Their voices chafed
Their smiles contradicting
Their songs of lost love

Love as impermanent
As the water calligrapher’s brushwork
Subliming into the Gobi air