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 I am not a native of this palce.
(Yosimasu G.
) nor yet a stranger.
With the rst of you I hunt for shade my boots half off to let the air through.
My head is on my shoulders & is real.
I plant cucumbers twice a year & count the bounty.
Often I read the papers standing.
I am clean & pure.
I carry buckets from the pond more than my arms can bear.
Under a full moon fish appear like flies in amber.
The words of foreigners invade my thoughts.
The hungry hordes surround me wailing through their beards.
My fingers tingle feigning speech.
I havea a feeling that my tongue speaks words because my throat keeps burning.

by Jerome Rothenberg
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