The Self in One Part

I can be funnier than you. Purists, nudists, gravel placates nerves. Pulchritude, a word scheming as buxom does for a sensible language. I take advantage in italics. There is beauty: black bough on snow; a straight line; shore line, life—hello?

The effort of breathing is to get to the point: fate. Alas, a plot begins with future as character. This morning a ship entered my eyes moving so slowly I did not notice I was twisting my body. I know you are thinking, breast.

Lately, the world swivels at will and I find I shut my eyes tight.

Tsering Wangmo Dhompa’s third book of poems, My rice tastes like the lake, is just out from Apogee Press. Her first nonfiction book, Imagined Country, is forthcoming from Penguin, India.

Photo credit: Claudia Currie-Gleason

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