noodles slither
on plates of rice

to the native tasters
they swim throats venomless

satiate bodies
skipping of saffron
that airs Shanghai cafés

the king cobras of noodles
fan evergreen flavours to the city

in which I'm tourist
starving to translate its taste

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The Young And Old

Europe (to America):

You crave my old family tie
to prove you're no abstract
city on the hill.

Stopping me on the street, you cheer
"I'm Scotch - Irish - Hebrew, ten times removed!"
As if I'll adopt you, your thinner blood

tasting more of Coca Cola
than Brighton Rock, I grew up with,
an aristocrat of the deep green

sea, leaving you thrashing
in the shallows,
still wanking your Daddy's gun

with one hand on the inerrant
Bible's oath of destiny
that blind you blind.

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New England Glass

New England snow cuts like glass.
She glides on the silver-studded platform,
ballroom dancing in fabric-conditioned warmth;
the conifers like curtains over the parade.

A little pick-me-up for the childlike sense
captured in slicing skid marks.
Pratfalls to the deck, the unbalanced struggle
with the icicle works peeling off
in knee-skinned flecks.

Hello, hello.
We meet in a tumble.
hand-cuffed in a twosome.
Capture my insecurities in your fur-lined glove,
and maybe we can meet later for tea
under New England glass,
leaving our skates behind on the dash.