I erase my fingerprints in order to see you.

I hold my sneeze in order to hear.

I shake hands with sleeves, take off AirPods more than necessary.

I acquire a diet that most people agree with, listen to a French radio which sounds to me like 

music wordless. I collect my crushed accent from the ground — they are 

the cigarette butts. I read the menu, only comprehending colors. 

My Uber rider rating gets lowered because I cried in the backseat once

loudly in Chinese. In Chinese, “heart moves” means falling in love. My heart moves. My mother

moves 

the iron. My mother seasons. My mother opens her mouth twice a day and does her hundredth

Covid test. My motherboard now buzzes like a sewer cascade as it runs and burns my lap. 

Ask the revolving door — why for one to get in, one needs to get out? 

What does the moon say about the flows in the market?

I want to fly last minute so I have the driver stop at a KFC — I go in 

to get my wings, packed in a paper bag.