At night Chinamen jump <br />on Asia with a thump <br /> <br />while in our willful way <br />we, in secret, play <br /> <br />affectionate games and bruise <br />our knees like China's shoes. <br /> <br />The birds push apples through <br />grass the moon turns blue, <br /> <br />these apples roll beneath <br />our buttocks like a heath <br /> <br />full of Chinese thrushes <br />flushed from China's bushes. <br /> <br />As we love at night <br />birds sing out of sight, <br /> <br />Chinese rhythms beat <br />through us in our heat, <br /> <br />the apples and the birds <br />move us like soft words, <br /> <br />we couple in the grace <br />of that mysterious race.<br /><br />Frank O'Hara<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/at-night-chinamen-jump-2/
