Six or Seven Impossible Things

To think before breakfast—
A poem from after life,
From the end of the world

As recollected in
Tranquility—a poem
With a bat’s qualia,

Inaudible echoes
Of a whistling language
Translated as gestures

Depicted in writing—
How many poems are we
Up to now? Seven? Six?

The poem that isn’t one,
That isn’t anyone.