Mina Loy or Nima Oly or Amin Yol

I don’t want to leave you. I’ll go back.

I think you’d like the word “mug.”

Courteous discomfort.
Ideas in eyes, allotment
of a whole lot.

Facets are full of brochures
of your inventions. “The implied whole,”
I liked it when my professor said that.

Did something actually happen in your Adolescence—
in its reign and jawbones? Mine was pretty screwy.

Startling enough, I may have broken a lamp of yours.
Somebody else has to have one. The editors are searching.

Today in class we chuckled about the Curtain
starring as the Curtain, and of course, WCW and You
in Lima Beans. I’m glad you didn’t fall for him.

I think I love you. I think you are a hatchet
and hatchets are lovely.

This really is a corpse-friendly place. I just mean literature.
Some days I don’t want to look up a word and find it doesn’t exist.

I think existing is really no big deal.

The art museum security man said, “I am so old
I don’t know if I’m alive or dead.” “Excuse me,

is the art alive? It’s old. What are dead things?
What does ‘deadened’ really mean? I mean, really?”
He got out his walkie talkie and walked away. I used to have one of those.

Mina, I think you were my neighbor. “Get out of my yard,” you’d holler.
Would you, could you, ever yell at me if I walked through your yard?

What were you like when you yelled? There are two things that tell me a lot about people: whether and how they yell, and their bathrooms.

Mina, did you ever have a yard? They seem so important around some people. They say, “Get out your sheers. Your blades of grass are about to touch the sidewalk.”

Let’s take a walk, Mina. Really, can I call you that?