Kristin Chang Breed At night the Huangpu brights and tangs like a pelt in oil. Wind in my hot mouth a stinking pup. Riverside the immovable state of things: surface upon surface upon surface not water. You talk about what it's like to stand in holes killing time, to powder the stink of a bombsite you claim is the math of breath on body, KOs that ghost. In reality it is famous, a bombsite people visit, yearly or even weekly, to determine if they still care. In Shanghai 35 people got trampled and fell off balconies the night of the American New Year because the coupons dropped from a helicopter (2 yuan off any drink from the hotel bar) were from a distance green as American money. In Shanghai the birds sound almost human. Like ravens, they learn to recognize a self in the mirror. But they are not ravens Kids don't learn their names. But have caught at least 2 of them which is not at all sad to us. The birds are better off bonesoft and moonfat in their cages than slotted into the night like stolen currency. The people who died were mostly women. Their bodies mostly salt. At night the Huangpu's tongue of salt is almost nostalgic, almost full bail posted for a functioning sea. This is when we meet in a hole. Discuss the news, our complete blood counts, that Chinese man with 2 penises who finally wrote a tell-all memoir. On the cover he is wearing bluewash jeans and the penises are obvious as the birds I hold in my throat. Now is when we talk about this, about grooming a site green, about meat wetting in the sink and the small flight of women from balconies, about the aftermath of what's called water when we're no longer mistaken for birds.