Un jugo de naranja
I did the wrong thing Tuesday and ran
far away. To Iran? Nah.
Irony of the fourth type abounds in
Iran, ja, ja, ja, but look, over there,
it’s the legendary Iron Knee of
Kolkata. Thank you for not coughing–
De nada.
I ordered orange juice in a cafe in
Nara, and fed it to the deer with the iron stomach.
Was that wrong of me? Nah. But imagine
the “Oorah!” of the so-called sevenbranched candelabra
we grabbed on the way to Mr. Eliot’s quinceanera,
a desert rock show in the heart of Golgotha.
My sister once gave me a doll from Iran.
It shouted “Hooyah!” when I struck
its knee with a small plastic hammer.
Second Slope 