An Mo

a pu pu chi playing on the tsuzimi, with the rerouting of fingers
in chinatown, with the fastening of a plastic holder for kuai-zi

he hears a screech of the foot-basin, with black sesame panna
cotta inverted in the zhi mu decocting, like the wode spray ad

senses his draining the pu-erh tea, the brandish misshapement
of the rope flap on his leg, in untying his miniskirt and overall

a petrissage of shui mai dough as he pushes through valsavar
exhalations on his own, gripping the mug tightly as if iridium

turning away as to not let show the battling, the futtering with
the take-out stack of butterfly cookies, just before refilling the

circulatory slush he had made in the bowl, unasked with a few
crumbs, from how often the won ton wrappers layed, saltatory

double thickness