If I think about a man in China,
will a man in China
think about me?

If I think about a man in America,
will a man in America
think about me?

If I press my ear to the ground,
if I whisper sweet prayer,
if I roll to the right & bite
into an apricot, will he?

If I press my ear to the ground,
if I whisper honey prayer,
if I roll to the left & spit
a gooseberry skin, will he?

If I tumble into green valleys,
if I lay down in cold creeks,
dry my feet on warm pebbles,
crack open a beer, hold its neck
& drink, will he do the same?

If I climb the yellow mountains,
if I leap up for the clouds,
wet my hair with goatskin water,
pour a cup of tea, touch its tin
& drink, will he do the same?

Does he know, I wonder,
what his people have done
to the Earth? That his factories
spew black death, that his people
have killed the Black Rhino,
that their growth is the end?

He must know, he must,
that his people cause mine
to leap from factories,
they’ve horded the Earth’s fruits.
He must know, he must,
we only want what is our due.

If I sit on mossy stones
reading books about butterflies,
if I pull a burr from my beard,
cast it into the river,
will it find him?

If I stand at the market,
read the hum of barter
like tea leaves, if I take a tea leaf,
toss it into the air,
will it find him?

If I perform an absurdity:
if I stuff French Fries
into my pink underwear,
will he deign to do the same?

If I perform an absurdity:
if I write a poem
about imaginary Americans,
will he deign to do the same?

If I think about a man in China,
will a man in China
think about me?

If I think about a man in America,
will a man in America
think about me?