The birds don’t bother to contemplate
where your brows are at, Yaya.
The observer didn’t care about
the blank spots above your spout, Yaya.

And the black, the noir
inhabits your blank spots,
your puckered mouth,
the two spaces devout.

Oh, do not fill them in
with fin, fill and swim.
Chin, chin.

Your visage is an image factory barrage, Yaya.
Though sufficiently far, it conjures up
the cinema, the bar:
the red, the blonde, the noir.


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