Koala Strawberries

For Keiji (again), I compose
a few lines. It’s useless. Iíll
never be a haiku writer. My
destiny lies amid the Cyrillic

paperbacks, apartment blocks
& spines of books Iíll never read
or pay to have published. If we
are poets then cities are Koala

Strawberries, rotting cherries in
cardboard boxes. We’ll write poems
on them, then laugh at ourselves,
we beautiful boys & girls. As the

autumn wind blows in from some
obscure clime, between seasons,
on the floor of the disco, dance.†

Sunspot on the wretched ikebana.

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