Making a breakfast strata for breakfast at midnight in the kitchen reminded me the poetry nights in Shanghai at Fu Mao Lian Xi on Maoming, hiding at the end of the long, narrow lane houses. Always crowded with an curious mix of Xiao Zi (little bourgeoise) and Fen Qing (angry youngster), always someone smoking, someone drinking, someone cooking in the kitchen behind, and someone reciting Octavio Paz and arguing whether when a poet writes he should use another voice.

WATER NIGHT

— Octavio Paz, translated by Muriel Rukeyser

Night with the eyes of a horse that trembles in the night,

night with eyes of water in the field asleep

is in your eyes, a horse that trembles,

is in your eyes of a secret water.

Eyes of shadow-water,

eyes of well-water,

eyes of dream-water.

Silence and solitude,

two little animals moon-led,

drink in your eyes,

drink in those waters.

If you open your eyes,

night opens, doors of musk,

the secret kingdom of the water opens

flowing from the center of night.

And if you close your eyes,

a river fills you from within,

flows forward, darkens you:

night brings its wetness to beaches in your soul.