THE FINAL EPISODE
The man opposite opens his window carefully,
Only to shut it with a thump, and clamp both hands
Over his mouths stifling a dry grunt.
The window is two meters high. The swallow grass beneath
Clatters several layers of frost, and on the dark red
A scorpion tries to climb through the glass. Tries and
The man breaths out a mist, flattens his nose on a
then prowls round his room. He kicks up dust clouds;
his white jacket blanches his face to a famished lime-colour.
There is a cudgel in his hand which points to this and
as if at any moment he might shatter the glass and
into the glaring daylit world through a jagged O
rimmed with his own blood. But he does nothing of
And anyway; you and I can’t be bothered with him
The frost is thickening on our windows too.
That’s right - why would anyone be interested
in watching him now? In watching anyone. Or
That scorpion, for instance, or whatever it is.
Original Version of Poem by Hong Ying