I’m at the crossroads again but this time I seem to have missed the way. The sky is blue. The sun is red. An orange is. What am I thinking of what am I. Thinking. I’ve come to the river. I need to cross. There is no boatsman, there are the crocs. I’m not Kafka and I don’t know any talking cats. Neither do they know me nor this crossing I have come to be.
I have come to the crossroads and the roads have come to a cross.
It suddenly rained in Hong Kong and we ran into a shopping mall to buy some cheap umbrellas with Jacky and his girlfriend Jean. Bei Dao was misty. Adonis was the Assad’s uncle. Darwish had died. Yellow was green and mauve was an accident. Indigo is lilac’s cousin. This much I have shored. This much. Again. Against my.
Against my again.
World is without me. I am at the cross.
Roads meet to agree. To go nowhere.
I put down my luggage. I put down my self. And. Wait.
The water is swift. The crocs are hungry. Crows ominous overhead.
I take my first vigilant dip.
I wait to become. Water.
A deep pink is purple’s blush.
I take my time. I don’t rush.
Just the gentle tingle of an urgent push.