To Edgar Lam

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