[ ~ with a line from Sam Roxas-Chua 姚’s Echolalia in Script ]
I love the homely egg, even after it’s broken:
my flawed desiderata, my failed cartography.
I distrust those who warn against dreams—
those who say dreamers are swindlers,
peddlers of moldy bean curd, fake
pashmina. Look around, there are many
far more evil than the dreams they warn us
not to harbor. They wear identical dark
suits and cannot look straight at the camera
even while professing apology or regret.
Whereas I love the irregular weave of a hand-
loomed blanket, how and where it holds itself
most accountable to light: the thin spots,
the possibility of future breaking. Every use
thus beautifies the tally of a thing’s im-
perfections; which isn’t the same as saying
it is flawed. I admire what’s entered fire
yet stays supple, acutely reflective.
The leather-faced slapper coaxes gold to tendrils.
We’ll wear what the blows will never finish.