Flowers fail. And I see
the encroaching color of terra-cotta
upon the shrubs. 

I should warn someone
that the contour of the skyline
might break at this point,

shattered and hung
on the bruised cheeks of the evening,
or is it too late?

No swallows to cut the air
and the streets are screaming
attrition. Further out

the chiaroscuro vista
of the city falls
over the roof.

Suddenly the scent
of sargassum and silt.
And ants everywhere.

I must be afloat in the heat
through the crammed
streets and impatient cyclists 

who pedal like rows of thick stitches
on puckered linen.
But I exaggerate, 

This poem is about the storm
which is to crush the lathered
troposphere. 

No escape

I stand alone, looking
across layers
of the ruffled horizon, fearing  

it might come too early,
too soon,
if not with a rose

with daggers to the bone.

Aiden Heung is a Chinese poet born and raised on the edge of the Tibetan Plateau. He writes about his personal past in a Tibetan Autonomous Town and the city of Shanghai where he currently lives. His words appeared or forthcoming in the Australian Poetry Journal, Cha: An Asian Literary Journal, Poet Lore, Hobart, Parentheses, among other places. He can be found on twitter @AidenHeung. Visit his website for more information: http://www.aidenheung.com/