In the book depository there is a sweet apologia
for what Lee Harvey Oswald is about to do,
plus, in the addendum, a recipe to remake
Mr Kennedy's brain. This time,
he can be a dolphin, clicking and squealing
through the Taiwan straits,
the surface a distant rumour above his blowhole,
refracting moonlight when the phases are right,
frilling in the monsoon winds.
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