In the dining car, you might think the people would be
grateful for the wind of Nezha’s fiery wheel at the collective’s feet:
the collective wobbling, the collective lack of peace,
un-uniformed bodhisattvas, nothing fishy here.

People standing to eat noodles, grateful
for all that joins in refusing uniforms: look,
see the grasslands fast-forwarding to daybreak,
meat and potatoes piling high to form collective walls.

A proper uniform: a steady woman playing nice.
A burlap sack: a broken man breaking bad.

(2011/7/22 Shanghai)