On Yan’an Lu

My bike requires repairs. I have been taking too many taxis.

To a Shanghai taxi
O coach of völkisch birth, to you I plead:
Your pilot’s callused hands and leaden hooves
beget in me a dread of mortal speed;
The windshield glass, so stained with soot, removes
the sense of life and depth that sight improves.
With nought betwixt us and the soul ahead
he now with hellish tarantism moves
and hurtles us through countless signals red;

I pray, Santana: slow, ere we meet with the dead.