XXI

The guardian of the cosmos treats all the walls and fences
with all their lurid openings, inscriptions and depictions
as her equals. She talks to them like an ordinary creature,
but the manner of speaking is as far from small talk as possible:
it’s a kind of mumbling in front of a crowd,
when the words are placed sloppily in the mouths
of grasshoppers, mice, rabbits, prairie dogs, horses
to make them disgrace or astound their species.
She is a nutcase with an eternally misspelled moniker, loco
’til the inalienable tomorrow.

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