China Garden

He leans across this table,
Fried meats and polished rice
At elbow and palm, adorning lip
And breath with spices come from China.
He has desolation in his words, yet knows
Not what works he does, for he is foolish.
He rouses recent thoughts, wounds still damp
With blood and bile, and blunders through me.
His wisdom is worn out years ago, his tact dead
At birth, purple and bloated, mottled when born.
The boot ignores the flower, he ignores everyone
And all are trodden down to death by bastards.