"North of Nancheng"
——The eternal game of coordinates and tides
The phoenix trees cut the dusk into pieces of gold, scattered on the third platform railway track
The wind chime is stuck in the faded clock tower, and the echo echoes after counting twenty years
Someone licks the rusty postmark and tastes the salt as the hour hand turns
Migratory birds swirl in fingerprints on coffee cups
The ginkgo leaves drowned in neon are floating towards the unsigned letter.
The old umbrella ribs pry and fold in the rainy season, and the ticket grows moss in the seventh year
And time is a derailed train
Carrying the embers north of Nancheng, sailing towards all the unfinished morning and evening lines
It's slowly freezing in your eyes and mine
