I prefer moralists
                  who promise me nothing.
                  (Wisława Szymborska: Possibilities)

I prefer not to state any preference.
I cannot carry a tune
so roll a rusty hoop after school,
moved by its music.
                                         Finally I speak,
finally to the sign: 'Here'
I see half the story, overlooking
a factory that makes plaster saints
for Easter, an essential service.

I have collected all the faulty haloes.
I sweep the floor with small slippers
and a smaller voice: 'You prefer him,
whoever he is...'
                                 I have what is
left, my life quotes the lost
original: A word moves a bit of air
(Nachman of Breslov). I prefer
moralists to promise me nothing.