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Nov 112013


At some point in this poem
you will notice I’m a foreigner.

Even if I had been living in
London for a long time
– which is not the case –
at some point, you would
notice it, anyway.

It’s inevitable. I can’t escape.

At some point, my grammar
will slip, my coherence will fail,
my vocabulary will cease,
and I will hit the language
barrier: full stops won’t let me pass.

At some point, I will choose
the wrong word. I will make
a bad use of something.
Perhaps I won’t even
know what it is. An expression.
A saying. A quiz.

At some point, if you’re not
a foreigner, like I am,
I will sound a bit different
to your ears. There will be
something unnatural about my
constructions, my connections,
my continuity.

At some point, I will write
something odd. Something
weird, that you normally don’t hear.

At some point.

Maybe now?
I don’t know.
You tell me.


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