MTR
the sun
sings softly in kowloon
cutting glances between
bodies, space
and air-
the trains here are fast.
and around the bend
i am everywhere:
hitting, with
the kind of clarity
you get
when the wind
cuts through you
at forty miles an hour
and now
sitting in a room
thousands of miles from home
i am nothing
to anyone
but the soft
in the threads
of her warm
sleeveless dress