Mister Mojgani, I don’t believe you speak poetry at all. I don’t, I don’t, I don’t! It is your hair that does it. That beard of yours. It knows not of daily trimmings and so speaks of daily trimmings. Courage found away from the knife. It knows much of daily trimmings. It knows the hard caress of soft fists made in thought, and so speaks said fists. All you’ve done is closed your mouth and let your hair fight. See! It flees the tyranny of your head, the wastelands of thought. See! It collects at your chin, near the heart; I’ve seen farmers pick land. I’ve seen refugees pick arms. I’ve seen them learn a new language. That beard knows how to shout. How to demand, food. Its slow descent towards your chest speaks of desire, labour, of almost there. Like the hand that shifts through the day’s wages and comes up short. I wonder, have you actually ever opened your mouth? How do you eat?