I know a poet in Cuba, New York.

I feel like there’s a submarine in my stomach.
My submarine is a stomach
In an emptied swimming pool.
It is slowing down after a rapid spin.

My thoughts are really about an event horizon.
Damn, these fucking places I always come to.

It’s hate.

In Cuba, New York we’d walk on a cut grass path
Between raspberry bushes.
He’d mention this big square hand.
And there was all the pottery invisibly in a second story
Wood cabin.