I can hear the Vietnam soldiers
playing ping-pong against my skylight.
My skin cloistered like a clam's shell,
Feeling Simic's words float through veins
and sighed an indigo smoke cloud,
folding myself in blankets.
Is there no humanity in jungles?
It seems more civilized, anyways.
My judgment is an organ's key.
Where's my hat, my scarf?
Shrinkwrapped with bamboo leaves,
turned white from winter.
where on earth
Birds attack the windows
and my skin is frightened worms
struggling to find rapture.
The ice bubbles on my view.
Where is the road home?
The anxious wolf in me
sniffs the trees and clambers
toward a hopeful home
where warmth is abundant.
the right place
Fingertips taptaptapping on the doorknob,
impatient yet lingering for entry.
Those long nails,
Clandestine motives to trick
an uneasy soul.
My heart is a rhythmic symphony.
Love is a rare expenditure,
too oblivious of its exclusive need.
Love is a castrated man
shaking to his knees
and barking orders.
Love is a sly, winter gust
creeping through cracks
in the door,
and it sends shivers down my spine.
Love is a deep-rolling pigeon,
Reckless yet divine in its glory.
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