I love handfuls

anything with a shape
breaks, my empty shelter
collapses, my inefficient transport,
its gliterry paint
chips. From underneath my chin
I look indifferently
upon the crumbling
angles of yourself appall
at that indifference–detectable
only with a mirror. In and out of geometries
we inhabit, we traverse
our luster smears, but the kindle and hum
is someone else entirely.

Published by Lia Yaranon Hall

My name is Lalla. I was a 14th century poet in Kashmir and worshipped Lord Siva. I died and fell from an evergreen tree in the Pacific Northwest (47° 36? 36? N, 122° 19? 48? W). My Lolo found me in an ivy patch. I spent most of my formative years on the coast of the South China Sea spearing fish until I became a "vegetarian" (but we didn't call ourselves that in those days). Shortly after vowing ahimsa, I moved to New York, unironically, under the guise of "poet" so that I could perform aerial stunts and acrobatics for an underground circus called the.

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