Two Fishermen in Hong Kong

We couldn’t find anyone 
in that inner-city maze. 
Between thick buildings 

we asked God for directions 
in our own tongue, our hope 
unravelling like heavy nets 

let out to drag the ocean floor, 
our eyes instinctively closing 
on the smell of squid and fish 

steaming from a hawker’s cart. 
We watched him dip two sticks, 
each skewered with pieces 

of orange legs and tentacles. 
We were warned not to feed 
off strangers. For hours 

we worked that succulence 
in our mouths, our aching 
jaws beginning to testify.