My daughter in the frantic evenings
Knits some stars and secrets,
Some pictures of our old wet pots,
Some letters loosely hanging
Over our home library attic.
She has taken overdoses of history syrups.
Knits some cages around the metals.
Presses my fingers hard inside the cages
For me to visualize the photos inside the nest.
The photos, old and stinking,
Haunted by miscalculations.
Our painted city skyscrapers
of those days, the shrinking stars,
Circus ring chronicles,
Memorabilia of fabrics,
Mispronounced colours and shades,
Fortify dates in to rocketed papers.