In bed, China is a baby kitten. India purrs expectantly. America twists on its back, shows me its belly. They’re jealous. Here China. Here’s milk. Let me scratch you. Let me love you, poor frail thing. Come under my long moustache, China, for it protects those over which its thin shadow falls. My rock n’ roll hydroelectric brain, my bird’s nest calligraphic heart. Each boundary between cell wall and cell wall, the delicate tracing of ink. My nostalgia for the future. China, there you were on my doorstep. Your thin cry and scrabbling paws. The moon large. I hold you in my arms, whisper to your expanding economy, your ecological disaster, your hairball government, your hope. China, the world is large. We comfort each other.