moon splits into mercury veins,
dripping through a sieve of pines—
the river gnaws its reflection.
a hànfú’s1 embroidery sprouts thorns,
stitches clawing into a cage of ribs,
while rusted bells hum static hymns.
smoke braids the alleyways, thick
as congee left to rot. a boy dissolves
into paper lanterns, each breath
a flicker. his palms clutch static—
cicada husks, a fistful of teeth,
the weight of a name unsung.
nightmares bloom like ink in milk:
mother’s voice warped to radio waves,
a bicycle’s skeleton sinking in rice fields,
the horizon a suture split wide.
he chews on shadows, tastes
burnt sugar and diesel, tongue
stained by the ghost of fireworks.
his shadow drags a scythe of moonlight,
carving hymns from cracked asphalt.
dawn arrives as a bruise—
jade mountains bled to charcoal,
a sparrow’s wing pinned under glass.
he wakes to the murmur
of looms weaving his lungs to dust,
each thread a shard of unshed light.
the world now a wet matchstick,
his spine a fuse smoldering
in the throat of a storm.
1 Hànfú is the traditional clothing of Han Chinese people.