An isolated, winding gimbal floats along
The medium between my lips and your ears—
A tidy pouch
That clutches every thingness in a beaker
And distills it to comprehension—bare minimum,
Square root of Singularity,
Strong like a newborn’s headbutt,
As typical as José or Steve, Haruko or Kristin(a).

Ripe, merciless overcoats of crushed purple velvet
Find their way to me
In a bargain-priced thrift store.
They carry faces, names.
Intricate carvings—stones, shells—set in relief on
Technology as old as pants—buttons, Cameos.
Style à la mode.
Cameo is a nice name for a girl.

Annelise Tomoē is what I'll name my daughter,
If I have one.
She already will be and will have been mostly American—
The “new” American—Part French Canadian, Part Mexican,
Part Amer-Indian, Cajun, Japaneezian Asian,
Caucasian (slash) Aryan.
Almost any ’un can make a contribution,
And has, or is about to.