出租房 / A Rental Room Comments

The sound of wind from the old ceiling fan is dying down
fishy smell of the sea is blown here slowly from the shore, brackish lives
line up, refilling this book, these poems, curtains…
their dim, shrinking heads are
like the dry, lusterless gaze of an unemployed person

In the iron pot the quiet water is finally boiling, a scalding mess
a black lock, golden instant noodles, a bow, a basin
a sprig of freshly washed green onion—the only greenness left of life
...
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