In Taipei I saw a man in starched white shirt
and khaki shorts squatting on a concrete curb,
tilting a half-full enamel basin side to side,
rinsing a length of pig intestine—something that
would once have served to divine the unknown.
Holding it in one hand, he pushed a hooked stick
through the viscus to snag and draw the other end
back through itself, as if turning it inside out
could change the future.
Pitching the water into the street, the last drops
blessing the sidewalk, he turned to climb
the ill-lit stairs to his flat to make sausage
or perhaps soup.