The dumpling maker

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.

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