In Soen they say, look how far you’ve moved. Two inches to the left of God. Ten feet from the nook to the aerial office. Four hillocks towards the sea. In Abuta they lean on their unbent wings and lock horns, sip milk tea. Nobody goes to Ti’hng anymore: there are too many heartbreaks and feathers. The lost stay lost, if they have a ticket. In Suay if you can be seen you can be fed. Or eaten. Menus change with the level of smog in Damu. Everyone wears grey in Sorg. A man and a man and a man disturbs the peace in Kaepoh. Couples who make love in Hui face west, hoping sighs will not wake the dead. Known to be lethal: the paperwork in Homen; puppets in N’anya; blankets in Blys. Pilgrim, meet me in a place whose names are breaths we take to pass the time between our lips. Where now stays now. Let the sun between your limbs light my way into the world.
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