In my disenchanted garden a thousand feathers are cast
messed and untethered from a broken bird,
while emaciated noodles flown in from Singapore
entangle nastily in my fridge, twitching to the bitch of
disembodied wireless witches, busy insinuating
trashed and shattered lives into wheat
shredded for modern convenience.
My unspoken words are only roughly equivalent
to their original tidy meanings,
and sit uneasily, itching to be Gestetnered.