It wasn’t a real day, /  but two rather  /  luminous hours I spent in a kitchen / with you, the light coy with us until evening-  /  my blinking, rapidly, /  the way a girl did once in a film / I criticized as not worth the ticket’s price. / 

there are big silent ovals / on the outside of the air

because she is born into a fog that coaxes her hair / her heart heavenward / because in this country of her birth whiteboys spit hate like wads of paper through straws / their eyes tiny as seeds / leaving her choking    voiceless    shrinking /