We nudged literature until she
Fell like a picked mushroom from her spot
We sought an old revolution that needed
To feel reborn for us to write our greatest work!
This wasn’t a Sanskrit hymn
Or a Russian poem or a Mandarin glyph
This was our life unmarked in neon, black and white
And I won’t tell you where it is
In the pocket of necessary madness
We talked about trees and the sense
That we were meeting in an abandoned
And persecuted tea-house, that existed
Across centuries, the place where
Hieroglyphics and calligraphy reappeared
In a cross-cultural hodge-podge of our form.