A Strict Silence of Immigrants
I am new to old cities. New to this land
that’s as subdued as my voice; equally
troubled by a duty to be understood.
I am a gapping colloquialism,
and I am tempted to observe strict
silence until my speech recognises
my voice as complete thought. Truly,
there’s a sweet temper about this place.
Found text remixed from Dickens’s
Martin Chuzzelwit & my 1991 Winter Journal