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.
