She says that the top of
the mountain is nice and the political
context is incendiary and the deepest desires
of the angels are written in latin and not in
the wind that you control. You pour her
a drink and ask which country
she came from, which war she is
running away from. You hold up the
walls of scarves, but she says that
it isn’t enough, so you both drink
and drink and get sick at your birthday party.
Spewing political ideas over top
of linguistic ideas, forming bold new
features of technological ideas. She’ll miss
her past and the vibrations
that it came with.