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The traveler sits by the window.

Kate Schapira

Kanying comes in to look through his drawers; they've given us his room. "Taking notes on what you see today?" He sees me comfortable. Who sees what I see? Narration in a foreign language. I go downstairs to eat leftover duck, shrimp, eggs, greens, rice, and soup. Imported sense of what it takes to keep things running stands in the golden. Rich of vegetation, petrochemicals, the usually hidden. Give up the real thing enveloped in a certainty like evening. Craving one version and its underside.

The traveler looks around herself in the estivating city.

No group follows much of the attraction. Hollow blocks make our way to the North Gate. Another guide's flag tries to sell us. Statuettes keep their heads down and I, too, risking an example. Waves a crumpled map. A one-armed man begs separately. There may be a simpler explanation. Trouble in the arm bone. Trouble in the mines. Trouble in the ordinary way. Those narrow trees with rounded shivering. Trouble about his pension. The bike lane at rush hour. Glimpse I'm in. Another. A perfect riot.

Kate Schapira

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