Every line is from a mono-economy, raised in
a mono-culture- in the country of mono, in a mono-field
just east of a road until misunderstood and misquoted,
slightly stolen, it ends up here. Every single line of this poem
is for Victoria, plain looking zebras and the children
who grew up with crop circles and have no reason
to think them strange, and will attend prom in a silo
and lose their virginity in another silo and count stars
from the ledge of what they will describe as a silo,
but will in fact be a Manhattan apartment building.
A nightmare began when Christians asked Buddhists
to explain Christianity to them. Their languages were two ovals
that could not touch. Everyone was bowing long after
the moment one might think it disrespectful.
I often imagine Victoria’s mouth a river.
I imagine if it rained, that river would do river like things
such as overflow, remove top soil and wipe everything out
as when being a teen, rain soaked with someone’s head
on their chest for the first time beneath tiny bombs of lightning
on a bus somewhere in South Florida, is enough.
I can’t count all the toothbrushes I’ve lost in the war on love.
If we could just make a country out of that first-timeyness,
diplomacy could be x plus y equals silence, the listening kind.
All winters could be wiped out by Victoria’s mouth
and all across the country no one would be ashamed
of where they stole their idea of love from.

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