It was in the spring of '94,

she saw him by a bridge in Shanghai

in one of those French hats

photographing the beautiful

(scenery)

and the innocent treachery

led to the autumn of '95

when from under the stars

emerged two figures 

one with eyes like the hopes

of a new-moon night

and the other with a grin

and one knee muddier

than the next

as the stars above led

to the winter of '96

when a house

down south

shattered itself with anger

and love

and she left within voices asking

what good could come

of a love

made in China;

If only they could know

how after sixteen summers,

her footsteps lead back

to the Marbled humidity,

as she puts my timid hand

on his wrinkled skin

and these lips

used to both the sounds

of Namastes

and Nihau

only smile in silence, hoping

she has brought him

something good.