Ice Skating in Kowloon

In black and white, black and yellow, black

and blue, she skates over the frozen

rink, light like morning in Kowloon

blueing over concrete housing stacks

clear viewed through giant glass mall walls.

Eight a.m., when city people are pushing,

heads down, toward the trains hot pulsing

below, she cuts through ice, soars, and falls

again and again and again, girl

learning that fluent is not fluid,

her body swooning on sweet gliding speed

will not fly in air or double whirl.

Face blank, she rises from the sprawl

and gathers arms and legs for another spin,

steel feet to bite and rock and lean

in lines the Zamboni will render all

smooth and traceless. I will observe

slow machine and artist of the ice,

walking this mall counterclockwise,

like her, on a surface that must serve

for deep water, moving on a ledge,

sharp edge cutting, and jump, and fall,

the same curving flow for the casual

script of ephemeral leaps on page.