The cluster of buildings in Shanghai’s business district – “Lu’s Mouth”
Was drooping its priceless cranium in the gray mist of evening.
In the main rectangular lobby of the People’s Bank
Guards with pock-marked faces were stationed to keep out people like us.
We are not bankers or the relatives of bankers.
We are not the people the bank is scheming against.
We are the people, men and women.
Totally perplexed and utterly joyous.

The mothers of the bank sit straight and vigilant,
Old but powerful, their tongues mulling numbers.
The numbers are alarming,
Most have the acrid taste of bitterroot in their mouths.
A few are flying high on a cocaine buzz.
A majority come from multiplication,
Piling things in a savage and empty manner
Toward the diarrhea of a one-time freedom.

Those who fear the multitude of the people
Register at the lecturn, and slink out of the meeting area to the bank.
I announce that I am a proletarian poet,
Yet I adore leisurely walking the Bund and Lu’s Mouth.
The enigma is like high voltage electricity coursing through a chair
Vanquishing the network of nerves, The riddle is
            In deep silence.
Fewer than the people but still greater than the people.