Self-translation1
there is nothing new
there is nothing old
there is nothing in-between
island and pines
town and mountains
a plane in the sky
always returns
the sky is always
different
my rainy forgetfulness
my muddles sweeping
sunday waffles baking
morning coffee steaming
this disease of mine
is non-identically
identical
to cough slightly
to run a fever
to never sleep my fill
to chart convalescence
with mandarin twilight
2
mother used to chant
don’t look at
there is blood
I didn’t
queasiness
crooked legs pulled toward the ground
powerlessness smacked its lips gloatingly
above the crown of my head
mother is chanting
don’t look at
there is blood
I do
I’ve been reading smart books
my friends have been reading smart books
it seems
everyone has been reading reading reading smart books
no one looks at
there is blood
I am
looking at
my bookishness is like red ropes
again and again
time after time
I’m
tenacious –
the red tightrope walker
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