The frog-souled sweats before the heat arrives,
skin dreaming monsoons no umbrella knows —
the lemon-blooded tilts her throat to noon
as if the sun had called her by her name.
Deer-startled at the tram's electric shriek,
she listens still for branches, not for steel —
while elephant-grieved, he carries rooms
of savanna silence through the MTR.
Linen, silk, the same masquerade —
but spring unpicks what winter stitched so neat:
the delta rising in a stranger's brow,
the tundra hidden underneath the feet.
Venice, Hong Kong — any port will do:
we wear our climates where the cloth won't show.