I saw a picture of you today, that crow's foot smile, your eyes blue behind wisps of bang, arm around his shoulder, same old still, and I felt nothing.
But then again, I was small fish to fry, and you laughed and said no, you are a whale and went away that Tiananmen spring.
And there was fear in your voice, strung out, evacuated, long on the line and coming home, unnerved.
I missed you at the terminal, you didn't wait. But that was no nevermind. You met me at the station, red on your breath, giddy with a gift.
You pressed that sterling Shandong bell in my palm, that small Shandong bell. The bell I keep in the never box, behind the broken watches and shells.
You called me a whale once, but when you returned from away, you pressed a small Shandong bell in my palm and held it there, impressed it there with a finger, that bell with the small fishes, chasing each other's tails.