Oof, this is my broken foot.
I broke it at home, ma, last night
in our glossary of memory.
Don’t worry. I’m soft. I stay
soft in this country.
Would you believe “intention of
genocide,” Sartre’s tribunal,
key to key, tree to force
ligamentous not large, Tennyson’s
“earth” or “Ay!” as you say,
“Ay!” in this
fluorescent room
heaving Radnóti’s earth?
Verbs recover me
miraculous with a diva
whose name meant, once,
celebration. Shirt on a line
put together
no one begged like you.