The music on the radio
was made in Australia.
My dreams
were made in China.
Pieces of the globe
float in my head.
I am speaking in tongues
I have the gift of prophecy.
Morning is here.
I drag my body up.
I set her on her feet.
She shuffles,
hesitates, looks back.
She forgets whatever she was.
She pretends to be human,
remembers the English words.
At evening, I wait
on my windowsill
horizon. My ship
sets out for the West.
I am air. I am fire.
The mother of beauty
is waiting, sleeplessly
to take me home.
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