A Fight Behind the Temple of Heaven
Smash of a bottle, and raised
Hands grab for shirts to rend,
But only scuffle and writhe
LIke an immense octopus
Plucked from water and thrown upon dry land,
Its suction-sewn tentacles wriggling to bring it aright
With eight minds of its own.
Someone brings a stool to bear upon the behemoth,
To bring its feelers to rest,
To smack its parts into submission,
To break its cotton binding:
The relationship that went wrong between
These affronted fellows, falling to the street.
The crowd gathers and gawks and jibes,
Salivating on the sight, as if waiting for a feast.
Soon they’re cleaved apart, these octopus fighters,
No doubt to fry in holding cells. The crowd is sated,
Taken in their fill.