In the poem I write there is production. There is a factory or a plantation. A field of flowers or a field of laborers. It is a poem about farmers or nurses or a mountain that looms in the background as a set piece. That fears to be bulldozed. That transforms into a face strangely unafraid. A face to fall in love with. A face to worship. It is not a poem that objectifies, not a poem that occupies. Not a face to punch or break. A bloodstained face with brown skin and white teeth. It is only an image in a poem with an effect. It is only a poem. A poem that transforms the image of land into a face. I want to write a poem about the north, our north. A poem about our highways, bypass roads, and service roads. Possibly to see the image of a kite wrung around a post in a field. To get the kite unstuck by the turn in the poem. It might turn into a poem about beach life and dance raves or the endless cable wires at each obsolete town to pass through. The country I knew and never knew. Paradox exists in the poetic world, the real world, and the third world. Somewhere, a tank is getting repairs to kill, while I am cutting grass, or hair. It is only a poem with a form. It is only a poem that conforms or deforms. Only a poem to read. To see if your history is relevant or the assigned text is applicable. To see if you can become amicable. If you spot the substitute image for the thing that was stolen. That hangs in a cold room somewhere like a painting. It is only a fictive room. Nothing in it moves.