IF I SHOULD DIE TOMORROW, PLEASE NOTE THAT I WILL MISS THE PARTICULAR

music of the word “callipygian,”

which means the having of well-shaped buttocks.

I will miss the particular cruelty

of tongue twisters in my first tongue:

“Shíshì shīshì Shī Shì, shì shī, shì shí shí shī.

Shì shíshí shì shì shì shī.”

I will miss the particularly high volume

YES of correctly completing this tongue twister,

even once. & the deadpan ditty

of the English translation: “Mr. Shi, the poet

from a stone den, likes to eat lions. He pledges

solemnly to eat ten lions. Regularly

he goes to the market to look at the lions.”

I will miss the roar of those lions,

hungering for freedom

while Mr. Shi hungers for them. & outside

the market, on a nearby street, the bright

ding-ding of a bicycle bell. & the messenger

singing, A telegram, a telegram

from overseas . . .

& the sound of the sea.

The sound the sea makes at night,

delivering its own telegrams—

a sort of sensual

moo. I will miss the particular quiet

of my body, your body, opening

a window to listen.