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Cyril Wong – 2 Poems

Cyril Wong
2 Poems
Smoke

I love to smoke
in the dark.
I love the shapes

smoke makes.
It is not
night but almost

morning. And you
will wake up
soon for

work, for
us, for
me.

You cannot
count smoke, except
maybe its curlicues

that disappear
quickly like Japanese
spies.

You told me to stop
smoking since
our university days.

“Don’t do it
for me,” you said.
“Do it

for you.”
I count
how many puffs

I can suck
all the way into me
in a minute.



Old Slippers

Look at you both:
Two upturned palms

That lifted me
Once into the gray,

Uncompromising world.
Hands of a clock

That would point
Mostly in two

Different directions.
Now, one of you points

Backwards, having
Learnt your lesson too

Late, and turning
Around to wonder.

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