That boat by the rope strung across the Wenyu river,
That little row boat always loosely tied to the tree
Is finally tucked away in the leaves
That sharpened widow-maker by the red path,
Always creaking and sawing away it’s coda
Is finally struck deep in the mulch,
Trap sprung, target missed
That Bank open 7 days a week
With the little Chinese man holding a night stick,
Is finally closing its doors in the rattling wind without notice.
And after the dust storm
Laid siege to Beijing
Is an Armada of unlikely white ships
in the blue sky sailing
Is fallen ginkgos just showing green, sprawled across sidewalks,
Is sparkling streets with no scooters or cars
And the haboob
blew his plane all the way home