All right. To make my vocabulary simple,
I’ll only whistle to a bus’ sighs, permit my
Daughter’s flying kite to get near my 15th
floor terrace, Beatles singing “Michelle,” a
French stanza, I have yet to ask her aunties
when they’re coming back home, an island
to reclaim their souls here on my tiled floor
with occasional birds’ braving for cereals.
Okay. And my dictionary by the rails could
kill a baby passing on this windy morning,
with cable TV blaring its own phraseology
and very, very articulate criticism of art.
Have I forgotten reality? I write, fart.
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