scruta

This middle kingdom, China, roils on

In sizzling squids, all spiced to burn like hell,

In giant sacks of tarp and packing tape,

In dust that never sits, but boils bright

In sun-lit dreams of wealth and power made

In factories and smokey banquet halls

In words that speak without a hint or voice

In popcorn bangs, and fangs of urchin mouths

Unfurled before this wide-eyed wanderer

His eyes too blue, his nose too high to hide:

“The money! money! hello! the money-a!”