I’m apt to loaf for news about you
I heard you did Salsa from Singapore
Played the saxophone as a decoy
While translating and interpreting market values
Us poets work bankers’ hours
You know it, with your silk grin of patience, your
Vocabulary that can’t be cataloged
Your words strike me as a saber of the future
Street-smart, like laughter right after supper
Champagne that sparkles, in the world’s most bustling city
I’m apt to not know what to say, once I find you
With your spoken french so far superior to mine
Wearing a dress tailor made for how
We failed at secular life, it wasn’t surprising
That I’m running out of ways to distract myself from
The inevitable dilemma that I can’t stop writing
About my lack of mentors, lovers, heirlooms, legacies, girlfriends
Nothing can compare to the exposure of my dying lips
Of the trinkets of your humanitarian sustenance
I caught myself worshiping today
At the thought of discovering you, losing you, crying
Triumph in-between your surrealism and the non-locality
Of how we know of each other at all
Like a rumor of lost identity hushed in semantics.
Wuji Seshat 