Portuguese man o' war
strawberry you have enough
satellites and karaoke machines to swoon
us in our sofas. You are a current of stings
poisoning the ages with high definition
reality behind the periscopes of cultural
revolution, bombing us from the periphery of focus
toward the puppet shadows of passing time. Lights
flicker through the film house. They eclipse into a golden
mean. And there is a samba from the strawberry
constellation where row boats drift through oval
windows into the accordion fires of the hinter
lands. She sings on her side cranking a broken turn
box as we dance like Russian dolls, one inside
another, through the mannequin
body of a thousand drawers.
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