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pinwheel :: arthur sze

by on November 18, 2014

Firecrackers pop in bursts of white light and smoke;
a cymbal crash reverberates in air: mortality’s

the incubator of dreams. Steaming green beans,
or screwing a wrought-iron hook into a post,

I do not expunge the past but ignite the fuse
to a whistling pinwheel. A girl sways under

a lion’s head, while others undulate behind
in an s. Casting back eight years, we entwine:

a tulip sunlight flares along our shoulders.
At Pergamon, we cross a forecourt—in the center

stands a column bearing an Aesculapian snake,
the space we meander through called the incubator

of dreams. We did not foresee sponges dangling
inside a spice shop or the repeating pattern

of swastikas along walls that have led here.
Though it is Year of the Rooster, I pin there

to here: a line of dumplings, noodles, rice cakes
disappears; reverberating hail on the roof suddenly stops.

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