And a third draft of Tootle Lingo, which I may rename later:
thirteen floors below us
contrapuntal traffic flows
in eight directions at once
(at least!) and bells on bikes tinkle
pitched above the beeping of scooters
beside the horns of impatient taxis
and bullying bellicose trucks
challenging long-winded baritone buses
as the bullfrog-bassoon police wagon
pulls the Kunming Sinfonia into line
with a hooonk-hooonk
and a mega-megaphonic order ...
traffic flows across
and up and down
unnaturally
like two rivers
crossing each other
and the sounds of their
tootle lingo
lulls the townspeople
- and me -
into a stupor
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