departure
life ought not be a raw material for art
the moon without mercy haunts his days and darks
the city blinks and twinkles its indifferent squares
the taxing evening soaked in shades of black lengthwise
the desperate 鬼佬 he puts his face into his hands
his hands they smell of antiseptic alcohol and lies
one of those people walking nowhere on the bridge
step after step the man he soon becomes just like
back in the waiting room he must be careful with
offhanded phrases like "the battery is dead
and uncle tony says a lot in his delightful london cant
in which he tells him earnestly the phrase "we, orientals
his heart melts quietly right through his head
although they're careful not to talk about
the man reduced to meat self portrait in a shade of red
by now he's free to wonder of thin lines
of things between vicissitudes clean split
as he glides on home on the snow and the ice
without a feeling or sensation in his feet