Like the postcard is a broken map–
Waiting is like something but expecting nothing in return.
Assume that we be here and that lest we hold unto the/
the victims of the opera house. Or the training gravy. Meanwhile
I am writing: I love you so much. I am linseed, breaking
[little] bread roll laws, unholdable. Who here is hungry can speak to me after the
break. I underline our signatures. Everyone is fishing and comparable.
Any name can be a drink. All our globular realities are under
stood. Martin knows this, as does Margaret. Underneath:

Honda, Alfa Romeo, Fiat, Citroen, Renault, Suzuki, Skoda.

I was angling for complements and we recorded the conversation. We are
mixing tapes; we are pearling. Our neighbours are unapproachable and
always a storey above or below. We had to chock the table up
with a book. I bought you a hanger-on, for you to be close
and open.

I performed CPR on a dying animal. I breathed gently
into the auricle. In the arcade, the sun is reflecting off the sago. What
happened to the day? I picked up every indirect object that I could find
and gave them to you. There was a yo-yo. Glitter-glue. I took the cats for a walk.
The bed is depressed, even the mattress. I boil coke and call it tea.
I found a knuckle in the guillotine and made a dramatic, a political
gesture. The cats are walking. Our lungs are so tiny. The cats
are descending two flights. The cats

are fully measured.
The cats are scooping rice with full moon tins. The cats
refuse all measurements. The cats swim. The cats are absorbing
all of the costs and half of the gluten. The cats have ears and mouths.
They have each other. The cats can run against the grain. The cats are
oceanic. The cats are a lost empire.
The cats are a logic and a grammatical rule.
The cats are following and being followed.
The cats are impassive.
The cats are rendering the fat from the meat.
The cats made a cinnamon sandwich.
The cats whisper into a piece of toast–
The kats believe that you are listening on the other side.

This entry was posted in flight, homelands, language(s), naming, poetry. Bookmark the permalink.

One Response to suzuki

  1. sam says:

    i boil coke & call it tea, too!

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