This is my luggage. I would hesitate to call it baggage.
Like stones of less than twenty kilo, each piece rolls
too fast to generate capsules or prostrate memory.
Debris can be blown off quickly. The first contains
various skins a Japanese boy once taught me how to
compress, before he thanked me for my kindness. Like
the mobile device I use to roam, my case is cracked.
Like an e-passport, it’s free from the marks that mask
my incompetence re. falling. My core work is navigation
via the ornamental compass attached to a strap I
seldom fasten. You might guess I am the second
Nelson, though it’s my right foot, third eye, that are
missing. I have mastered the art of writing while
running—not so much looking before lunging. This
approach benefits the poems. Please do not hold me
against my handwriting, or the six leaves left that I’m
not smoking. Flung this way about, you too, I am certain,
would find it hard to keep your lines from bursting.