At night Chinamen jump on Asia with a thump while in our willful way we, in secret, play affectionate games and bruise our knees like China's shoes. The birds push apples through grass the moon turns blue, these apples roll beneath our buttocks like a heath full of Chinese thrushes flushed from China's bushes. As we love at night birds sing out of sight, Chinese rhythms beat through us in our heat, the apples and the birds move us like soft words, we couple in the grace of that mysterious race. Frank O'Hara