Giant stone turtle on a beach at Nansha, China.
Tired-looking father sits on the turtle,
gripping a child’s striped jacket.
Toddlers scrabble in sand at his feet.
You will never be able to talk to him,
but can imagine something about him.
He lifts his eyes to you, but doesn’t nod.
Or the tree with starry pink flowers
outside the classroom window.
Nobody knows its name, but the trunk has thorns,
everyone has a story involving the thorns.
It has always been this way—more nearby
than anyone could recall or describe.
M. C. Richards, who wrote Centering, said,
It takes a long time to learn that nothing is wasted.
She also said, Poets are not the only poets.
Here, a few glittering bits on a table.
What’s on your table?
Tiny camel that travels thousands of miles
but still brays when you pinch its belly.
What can’t you explain?
That motorized monkey with a scary face
pulling a child’s rickshaw at the Fun Park.
Whose fun? The child looks terrified.
What surprised you lately?
Everything. Walking by water at sunset.
Remembering, I’m in China.
Evening ferry setting off for Hong Kong.
