Jonathan ROBIN (22 September / London)
Poems of Jonathan ROBIN
Spinning criss cross patterns as they post across the harbour,
spray kissing, barely miss each other, business to the fore,
the junks and ferries seem such toys when seen from seventh floor
or stateroom on the seventeenth, but does it matter any more?
Does it matter, for the room is insulated from outside,
from heat and from humidity, from differences too wide
in wealth and wisdom where the West unwelcome is as bride,
though brides are taken for a time, who doweries provide.