for P.K. Leung

From the window of my Hong Kong
hotel I see the fog has thinned
to a sheet of silk
and lancets of sunlight
are cutting through—
I couldn’t have asked
for a better send-off.
I wrap up a leftover pork bun,
squeeze it and a book
into my traveling bag,
and set out
into this world
and, at least, one other—
in the exact manner
I’ve done so every day.
If I see any literary friends
hanging out along the harbor,
I fully expect you to be
among them, laughing
because there’s soup to cook
and enjoy, the stink and beauty
that knows no borders,
journeys like a cap fallen
into the sea not to return
no matter where in the universe