By Aiden Heung
I
The waves come to the bund clapping
like hands when the skyline blasts
into light; Many people scuffle
to the cobbled riverside, a moving
collage in which I’m a clown’s
toy, tossed amidst a sea of colors
that abrade my eyes; my hands blurred,
bruised by the hue slung onto my skin.
Has the night fallen? Because
every place now is a non-place
and every face, a misplaced metaphor
in the long stretch of night.
If only I could burst out of this body
and become—
II
But the sound of waves swells
and swings, swings and smashes
into sound smithereens, a strange
reminder that I’m strung into a dis-
array of elements, and waves, yes
waves have come to the rescue—
a few drowned stars, bony
high-rises, the city that floats
off-kilter on its chromatic
reflection. A bloated landscape
on water that will be scraped clean,
before we notice, by iron claws
of the day, and the waves, too,
will disappear.
Aiden Heung (He/They) is a Chinese poet born in a Tibetan Autonomous Town, currently living as a traveling coating salesman. If he is not on the road selling water-repellent solutions, you can always find him writing poems in one of the Costa Cafes in Shanghai. His poems written in English have appeared in The Australian Poetry Journal, The Missouri Review, Atlanta Review, Parentheses, Crazyhorse, and Black Warrior Review among other places. He can be found on Twitter @aidenheung.