Sing your song sudden, let it be / a car door hitting the breastbone, / small tear in the pink of an eye. / Who hears it when you keep its hum / at the base of your throat?

She’s a Negro dove / so her song sounds like / a man divining scratch-offs, / false discerner of his own fortunes. /  She cups possibility, / puts it in a pocket, / throws it in the garbage, / and purchases another.

Come and tell me about the poems / you think up while smashing sleeves / of bamboo between rocks, flattening / the pulp into the sheets you later write on, / or fold into joss boats burned for an elder’s / afterlife.