What’s the time in Hong Kong?

How do we know we exist?

I scalded the boys for being boys, it’s a cycle

It predates everything

Shadows hang on the walls

It is really winter now, all that is interior needs mending

Like broken windows need repainting

The clutter needs removing

Who and what become closely framed inseparable

Believing in past threads, making time inside a collective consciousness

All these poets, writers, theorists need to cheer up

Their names levitate like tombs of dust in a dull forgotten corner

Of the library when the sun sets over Bloomsbury

And steady trickle of fingers that carve the words

Peter out for another day, like days before, like papers piled up in darkness

Wind blowing a door shut at night

Something wondrous filling their dreams

Giving us hope

Coral spawning intense life forms

Maybe we should think like that not like this.