Han River Poems (旱溪詩) rolls from mountain streams, one hundred poems, where reality resembles dreams. There, a first poem never was and a last can never be, forever in the Tao, peeling thin layers off the world. Through all the distractions that injure our lives, somewhere secluded egrets fulfill their futures as speed demons hurtle towards their next little messes. This Brooklyn boy intercedes straddling nature and machine in favor of flowers that soften his dream, flowers between the dyke's ledge that easily flourish without cultivation, a terrarium masterpiece from their only master, as boys going nowhere go faster and faster.