Ah, these wonton crisps A secondhand retelling Of a wonton crisp
for P.J.K.
the best thing about the definite article is that it is the
never trust the bald barber — he is a man who has no empathy
the stench of horse dung decomposing in the street as the rain begins
a blizzard of limbs in the tae-kwon-do dojo behind foggy glass
how many people have I seen so far that I’ll never see again?
the autumn chestnuts bombard me mercilessly on a cloudless day
what mystery drives us to percussion, delicate anarchy of skin?
in the winter street it is not ice, but ground glass slowly I’m breaking
the night is still, young but I cannot coax this sound out of a woman
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