A boat is there if you still believe in the ocean,
and a country remains if you lie still enough
to believe it. On the docks of Dandong,
a grandmother holds a bag of dumplings swimming
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in soy sauce, fish moving blind through a
midnight current. She offers them to you,
insists, and you cup them within the pool
of your warm fingers. When the boat arrives
in New York, you unload yourself like
a misshapen syllable, tumble unheard through
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