A Visit to Macau, 1976

The river delta so thick with silt

It sits like a swipe of peanut butter

Dotted with sampans and junks

Unmoving, even near harbor’s sea edge.

Remnants of a Portuguese past,

Still linger in shaded patio,

Whisper from delicate iron tracery,

Rust with silent bells in a church steeple.

A small arch offers little shade

To guards poised to stop errant steps,

Beside the foot path to China’s gate:

Sun-bleached, hard-packed

Bleak—up to and beyond—

Through distant green and empty hills

Which would otherwise welcome.

Two nationals returning

Approach the gate with eyes down

Walk forward in a backward slow gait

Carefully placing steps

As if to leave no trace of their passage.

Elsewhere, away up hill

Past mahjong gaming rooms,

A temple squats beside the road.

Within its tepid coolness,

Carved images of monks,

Fragrance of incense, flowers

Both fresh and dying,

A few poignant photographs.

Anchored at the foot of the hill,

In glitter and wealth, the casino boat—

Offering free passage home

For any with emptied pockets.

In the heavy velvet air

Summer-muffled,

Laughter seems out of place

On this hot afternoon.