I mash chickpea,
lemon, spinach and garlic
into a pulp.
This is nothing
without the transit
of these things,
and the rhythm of my arm.
There is no meaning
without movement.
Pay close attention:
The grey paint fallen
off this wood,
leaving islands
and continents
on the panels;
in several million years
Africa will crash into Eurasia
and a new mountain range
will be formed,
a crescendo too slow
for our musicians to follow.
I speak to you,
tell you I would like to meet,
to move a little closer
in my second hand coat,
tapping out
a new line
to get things moving.