poem after the lotos eaters

I order lotus root by the plate in Chinatown,
sugared heavy and shrunk,
little wheels, wide hollows.
Dowdy, thick and dreamy
I have gone through my days--
under pink crinoline lanterns.
The little shrimps swivel their eyes at the glass.
Heavy and high I hold myself
on the chair, the air trembling
with foreign syllables.
The noon sun finds me here
on dim blue porcelain, on glass,
in little darts that pierce the lotus root.

before midnight what?!

In A Chinese Restaurant

The piled carp gape behind the glass, their sores
a brilliant plumage on their backs.
The king crab works its ghastly mouth; the kettle roars;
the dark eels, supine, blind, and slack,

sway and furl like heated wires.
Outside the clot-gored river moans
against its spilled-in mattresses and tires.
Still the bound claws batter false stones

in the tanks. Candied fruits lie like tongues
on the plates. A man like a mendicant king
sits by the river, and weeping swells his lungs.
An undersea light floods everything.