on Kayang Street hollows
a well in a mound of flour,
then pours in a trickle of water.
Outside in the alley, stray
cats mew near the garbage bins.
A scatter of salt,
then two fists in the dough.
He pulls and stretches
until a rope is ready to divide
into moons— Roll them thin
so you can fill them,
pleat them, crimp
each of their ovals shut.
Into the basket go
more than a dozen bundles,
their bellies plump,
their shrimp dreams visible
as filaments of steam.
In response to Via Negativa: Dosage.
Wonderful!