We orbited each other like binary stars, but, verily,

you were the sun and I just the smatter rock around it.

Warmed by hotpot, we climbed to the high pavilion

at Jingshan Park then we tumbled down the hill at dusk

past the place where Chongzhen Emperor hanged

himself rather than face the rebels at the city gates.

Shoulder to shoulder we shivered like dreamers

on a colony ship bound for a remote galaxy. The bus

turned on to Dongsi Bei Street. Let off in front

of 7-Eleven and the fried chicken stand, we held

our breath down Moonlight Alley in the dark

afraid a spirit might follow us. Jumbled together

under the skylight’s icy glare, we woke

to magpies bickering in branches above us.

Gingko gold wet against the pavement outside the subway station. I follow

dinnertime scents that could sway an ascetic from the Lama Temple

into crossing Yonghegong Street. I turn down Wudaoying Hutong,

passing fine dining, fried chicken, bars, matchmakers, artisans, and uncles

selling Beibingyang—Beijing’s orange soda, chilled and served with

colorful, curly straws—to the kids and cigarettes to their parents.

I stop at 7-Eleven instead. Mango ice cream on a stick, Spicy Crawfish

potato chips, sweet red tea. A chill glides down the alley. Even though

it’s too early in the evening for hungry ghosts, I don’t whistle as I wade

through the gloom of the courtyard toward my apartment building.