i
There are two
not singing Asian
koehls dancing to
the tune of April
drizzle, playing
with brown, and a
bit smaller mynahs.
ii
The plane above
looked c r a w l i n g ,
ever so s l o w l y ,
gliding on a noon
sky void of fluffy
nor heavy clouds,
yet with Math it’s
actually eating hundreds
of miles for its lunch.
iii
There are two
women – one wearing
a delicate, lilac hijab,
while the other
possessed eyes like
the small cracks
of a for-sale piggy bank –
sitting with a grey-eyed
man, with mane so blond.
iv
Before I was able
to sew the story of
their chit-chat, I
can’t get rid of imagining
their races’ proud flags,
v
like bokeh halos
floating on their head tops,
flying, flying, flying proud.
vi
Perhaps in that table
without kissing nor hearts,
vii
I tasted another flavor
of love.
