By | 1 February 2015

What’s it like to be refurbished
tackled or finger-printed?
It’s not something you can ask
but I’m asking.
What is it like to be watched
waited, frisked?
Whenever I worry about my suit
my transparency, I don’t think of brightness
but calories, phones, ancient trees.
Does it matter who Beyoncé was
or what shalala means?
It’s all dancing lies amongst truths
yours or mine.
Our threats are whatever
and whatever will save us.
We know plexiglass, expecto patronus
or police presence won’t save us.
I interpret the clouds
but they aren’t the rules.
The rules are comments and spam.
Go get the questions!
Where are the questions?
Answers are here, unasked.
My hands are softer than they used to be.

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