We were making revolution when the phone rang.

Hello, it's Lionel Richie here, taking you

to a past you never knew. Characters in horizontal strips

construct a street: Shanghai's longtangs fan out in zig-zag networks

while at noon in the capital all the shadows run north.
A dry look with frosted hair, he takes solace in wine:

'Who now can tell a common Magpie Flower

from a Phoenix-headed White or a Purple Jade wing?

And whatever happened to Brother Swallow,

banished to Hainan Island all those years ago?'
Come and see the dragon's blood oozing out of the city's

punctured walls, they say. Stacked for removal, chipped tiles

are ripe for recording. Here are manicured pines for the poet in you,

and for your kids we put the monkeys in zoos. 'These strangers

without ancestors', he says, 'When will they return home?'
In a browning photograph, a string of camels

laden with imperial gifts steps warily through the city gate

as the Northern horseman smells the leak of imperial air.

In Lu Xun's courtyard, wild grass forces space

between the pavers. New shoots of ivy bloom

rose, rust, sunset and cherry on the weathered wall.

Then: 'Five or six beggars from god knows where,

stretching their dirty hands towards me –

are these citizens of the capital?' Adding a third hand

to each watch, this is reform.
Outside the Workers' Stadium, kites fly higher than flags,

hollowing white blanks from the brown wash.

'Are the people of Huihsien County still doing fine?'

Gobi dust is a remainder that sticks in your throat, but so

is the faint vanilla aftertaste of silver-tipped jasmine tea.