saying through her teeth In divorce each finds their own certainty, but in separation each sees truly.

Perhaps. Perhaps so. If a divorce, like every other thing, comes in its thousand flavors where, within each one, a further thousand words of nuance, love and rage spill on. Holy water and carbolic acid.

But here on a strung hammock Mister Chu feels not divorced (mother), but certainly separated from the hurrying fuzz and coal of city life. There is an ocean here and a field, animals of different styles and abilities (mostly hidden) killing each other while intent on making copies of themselves. Both goals approached without what we call tenderness.

But still. But still. Separate from The City (or his experience of cities, what was done to him and seen by him there, the opportunities and the sorrow) Mister Chu sees a version of them clearly and makes (almost aloud) this prayer:


There should be a law passed to stop
These great cities being as we expect them

Peace bells should be broadcast
Softly and in the dead of night

Incense should be wafted from obsolete
Dump trucks converted to the purpose

Disconcerted Krishna's should be put on the payroll
And encouraged to walk wistfully through the streets

In saffron or purple thinking thoughts
Of disinfectant and singing songs of love

Let the cab drivers give directions willingly
And let the lawyers lay down with the lost

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