A Maoist is reading a map
behind us in the kitchenette.
Maybe to marinate China
and tell us where we are
from grocery stores to the cafe
and name one mariachi music
in this new composition I work.
Our tongues are now maple syrup

in the marching seasons
to multicast the kibbutz;
the bigoted man has requested
again the bibliographies
for every speech we have moulded.
From this depth we must call
for plumage? Only yesterday
fifteen thousand neighbours died.