From the Outskirts

The meadow before me is a transitional place, insert Latin phrase. 

Under the frozen field is a begging bowl, insert Greek proto-legality. 

It’s growing hard to see, nearly dark, time for Russian.

From far off, a hum of traffic on the highway, Portuguese. 

Drinking coffee, hearing my heart, install algebra.

Things I’ve lived through, eighth notes, Finno-ugrian jazz, 

Bardo-Tibetan Reggae, yes, yes, insert Tibetan Bob Marley here…