He looked in a glass of the earth and thought he lived in it.
— Wallace Stevens
My 1st thought was I’d write down every bird
Who came through here without an injury
Or other stated reason not to stop
A winter’s feeling sorry for oneself
Flowered into singing by the spring. If
A painter, cloven to ideas instead
Of color, wrote out detailed names for all
Her sketches, you’d probably see that work
As separate from the main thing, canvases
On which a razor taught regret to oil.
As borer bees eventually destroy
The barns or buildings they maneuver thru
En route to copulation or to death
(Or both), I hope you can forgive me for
The wet eyes and shaky hands I brought to
Our life, which would/could’ve been so much
Easier if I’d made choices or money
Differently. Or more often. Every fall
Has started owing summer time and a
Half for covering September, the pond
Is low & leafless into October
Some years you can still see Halloween koi.
This great American inventor I
Know, he works at the local hardware store
And is surrounded all day by broken
Lamps. It’s fifty cents for a really small
Fuse, 5A/120V, though like most
Things you can still get for short money I
Harbor doubt it’s all you’ll need to fix the
Light you brought in hoping for a miracle.
The painter Agnes Martin was her own
Most difficult critic, cutting painting
After painting up (or having someone
Else cut them up for her) if they didn’t
Succeed in expressing innocence (her
Word). Like William Blake karaoke, half
Of how the most of us have deigned to live.
Although, hold on— it’s not like I mean to
Say there’s anything wrong with that vision,
That hope for one’s body of work. I just
Already have this big bouquet of wrongs
I’ve foisted from the earth and watered well,
A whole entire Harold orchid room
With more rope than any flower could need.
But sun comes. And with it, an improvised
Greeting we should’ve practiced beforehand
Like our signatures in limited space
Or a play with more than one speaking role.
The gradient of soil from clay to black
At first may seem like not the most thrilling
Spectrum, from reddish brown to the total
Of all colors (or is it pure absence
Of color?), but when it is the difference
Between a fresh-dug pond filling up with
Actual water or not suddenly
It starts to make sense of how people care
About the tiniest variations
Between things, the clarinets entering
A few thousandths of a second later
Becoming synonymous with ruin
Or innovation. The maple tree has
A winged fruit called a samara, which I
Didn’t know, but of course once I saw one
Online I knew the fruit behind the name:
A whirlybird (one down, a multitude
To go). Do you think Spinoza ever
Used a lens to look directly into
The sun? Before it was known exactly
What that does to you? I say “before” like
It wasn’t known the sun can hurt your eyes,
Clown emoji, but there’s something to be
Said for how the ways we know we harm our
Selves’ve increased manifold, dandelions
By chances strewn and further chances set
In soil rich with N and K and low in
P, with poor decay of organic
Matter. A frog jumps straight into the pond
As I approach. I hear Yahya Hassan:
“Criminals can harbour literary
Qualities,” as the frog steals underneath
The ripples. My prolonged study of frogs
Is out of hope I’ll learn from them just how
To make a life defined by a surface,
Be unafraid to breathe on either side.
At the very longest last we have reached
The eighty-sixth line, 1986
The year On the Plurality of Worlds
Appears, Ashbery’s “a winding staircase
with greenish light” perhaps incredulous
Too, I don’t know. I always reach for books
When I’m afraid of saying something true.
Like “I will probably not be enough
In the black to cover our local tax
Bills this yr,” our household monthly budget
Feels a bit like the flat penny Godspeed
You! Black Emperor included in some
F#A#∞ pressings,
Squashed on a railroad track in Canada
Somewhere (the penny, not the record). I’m
A life insurance proof of concept
Walking around in my tragedy clothes.
It’s spring and the grass is already long
Enough to start poking up through the stone
In a few spots, small green Excaliburs.
I think you need to know there is a thing
I think I hope I’m building you toward,
But it’s not a sword, or even like one.
A gun’s a decent guess for what you hear
A shoebill doing with its beak, with which
It also eats. The Orchid King, Henry
Frederick Conrad Sander, had a son-in-
Law called Henry Moon; they did a big book
Together but it was a terrible
Process because Henry the elder was
A businessman and Henry the younger
Was a “strong-willed artist” (Wikipedia)
Who painted orchids til the day he died
At forty-eight. He framed his work himself,
A European house wren building nest
After blank nest to cradle the future.
Do you think you have already suffered
The worst pain you will know in your life, or
Is it yet to come? What part of the great
Tide of despair are you riding, the ebb
Or the flow? Cattle, naked mole rats laugh
At our fragility. The Amazon
Is at a breaking point, or past it, tweet
#913 of my day
Declares, and in reply I post a poem
By Lyn Hejinian about angels.
The American criterion for
Truth is pragmatism’s: a thing is true
If it is useful, if it works. My best
Friend Scott’s disability checks from the
Army take forever to get approved
To start arriving, and the first one (with
Back pay) gets sent to an account number
That doesn’t exist. They tell him not to
Worry. In a drought summer, the river
Gets low, too rocky to safely canoe.
The first time I said I love you to you
Was in French, after not sure how many
Drinks, & my cheeks were on fire w/the word
Love, two Mark Twain tomatoes trespassing
On the Cherokee purple vine my heart
Clung to as it grew out toward you & sky.
It’s really hard to talk about that part,
The learning love again post-pain— cliché
Has creeping tendrils, won’t let memory
Alone, and healing is so slow that verse
Uniquely fails as vessel for its flow:
You can just listen, or read the next line
Without doubting you’ll continue at all.
This fall I’m hoping to have firewood cut
A little bit before the leaves are down—
Not all the wood, nor all the leaves. A start
To make October feel a little less
Like work. Maybe by then I will be less
Worried about money, less overdue
On everything, less constitutional
More situational in my weakness.
By February one debt will be paid
In full— if I forget for a second
How many other ones we have, how the
Interest accrues like plaque or loneliness
I can feel a brief flicker of progress.
The sage is coming in nicely in its
Barrel, furred like the bees who half-visit
On their way to the flowers who don’t owe
Anybody anything but color
& sweet scent, pollen which they give freely
Is not debt because it doesn’t promise
Any destination, puts nothing in
Writing. The policy at the hardware
Store where the inventor works is you can
Bring in guns so long as the action is
Open and you’ve kept the ammo separate.
The baby rabbit who lost part of his
Face to a lawnmower is improving,
It’s scabbed up and he can drink on his own.
Food is still a dropper situation
But the wildlife rescue people are quote
Cautiously optimistic end of quote.
The other day I learned how, if you drink
Water that’s like, manufacturing-pure,
It will start to drink you back— leach salt &
Electrolytes from your saliva, since
The polar water molecules don’t have
Anything else around to latch onto.
(It would probably also taste bad, since
Our metric for good-tasting water is
How closely it can match up with our spit.)
They’re doing a limited pressing
Of my mom’s new record on pink vinyl;
The coastal flooding in Massachusetts
Is on track with a sea level rise of
Two feet by 2050, meaning the
Hurricane barrier in New Bedford
Would need to be closed once or twice/day
To keep pace, which is impossible for
A working port to sustain. Fall River,
Home of Precise Packaging, LLC,
Will be on the receiving end of two
Handheld chemical detection units
So its Fire Department can respond
More quickly to hazardous waste events,
All part of an EPA settlement
Bc Precise Packaging, LLC
Was out of compliance & would’ve stayed
That way because it’s cheaper not to train
The people who handle hazardous waste.
The bottom line sees all trash as just trash.
When we mixed the wallpaper glue ourself
It was laughable how much extra we
Had. I laid it on really thick with the
Insurance people on the phone, tried my
Best to save a few dollars a month but
Still ensure it’d be a cool million
If unexpectedly I pass away.
Earlier this morning I was trying
To remember that line, where I left off,
But I kept thinking “unfortunately”
Instead, a whole prescriptive/descriptive
Scrimmage there, I’m looking for Mother’s Day
Poems to post and haven’t found one that feels
Right. In another compositional
Update, I finally gave up trying
To make the lines all fit on my phone screen
Without spilling over, which the giant
Two-syllable word “Scrimmage” forced my hand
On, but I think it’s better for the poem
Anyway. I don’t know what the plastic
Funnel things are called we put at the base
Of the downspouts but it’s fun to pick them
Up and hope you might see a snail or toad
Or an albino cockroach like you called
Me over to see once, as it turns out
The white color just meant it had molted
Recently, so maybe later that same
April when I was lying down in the
Barn attic trying to reach those wasp nests
And a bunch of roaches crawled on my legs
Maybe one of them was the same little
Guy, only hardened and darkened by time.
Sometimes being alive feels most like that
Turn-of-the-eighteenth-century French priest
Who spent most of his short life fostering
Devotion to Jesus through Mary. Saint
Louis-Marie Grignion de Montfort
Wrote, “God the Father made an assemblage
[O]f all the waters, and He named it the
[S]ea (mare). He has made an assemblage of
[A]ll His graces, and He has called it Ma-
[R]y (Maria).” Marian devotions
Are a great excuse for poetry when
You’re sad & young & think that God might know
Your heart’s big secret, told in silent pleas
By incognito searches for René
Karl Wilhelm Johann Josef Maria
Or Crevel, who when you learned how he died
It made you cry for days, a silly thing
That became your entire politics.
Speaking of which, here sometimes you is you
And sometimes it seems to be me, coward
-Ly, when I don’t want to own what I mean.
In the scene from Personal Shopper where
Kristen Stewart’s character is trying
To explain the sign(s) she hopes to see from
Her brother, her interlocutor asks
If they’d (the sign(s)) be from the afterlife,
To which she replies: “You could call it that;
[Y]ou could call it a million things.” Possums
Tend to live for only 1—3 years
In the wild, longer in captivity
But not worlds longer, typical macaws
Can see literal scores of possum life-
Times come and go before wasting disease
Could whisk them away to the rainforest
Or woodland or savannah in the sky.
The oldest one on record lived to be
114; her name was Charlie
But looking into her story online
Pretty quickly devolves into legend,
Like she was Churchill’s bird etc.
At least in most versions of the story
She swears vociferously at Hitler,
What Deleuze calls The Powers of the False.
Deleuze’s lectures on Leibniz are part
Of what I might be tempted to call the
Many-Storied Edifice of Love™
On one floor of which you can watch
Mother deer shepherd their fawns across roads
Dangerous with rain, one floor down from the
Loop of lava-lamp globs enacting both
Horns of the dialectic dilemma:
The one separating into two and
Two fusing together, becoming one.
Sleep / Restart… / Shut Down… // Lock Screen / Log Out Tom…
The bones of my perception are different
Bones than I had running in the forest
As a kid, broke a few, I dream of trees
But never of my cell phone which I’ve heard
Is common, once when I was pretty young
And Virgin Mobile was still a thing but
I didn’t really understand the way
They charged for data I spent $42
Downloading Solitaire at the airport.
In Minesweeper there are impossible
Configurations in that you cannot
Guarantee you’ll get them without guessing,
And although now there are no-guess versions
Online that was always part of the thrill
For me, that with total information
You could still be cheek to cheek with raw chance
& not leading. Gertrude Stein: “My idea
[I]s. [/] Yes I know what your idea is.” Mold
On the microgreens in the cat litter
Container in the garage on the way
To the landfill, or really the Clarke Co.
Convenience Center open from 10 to
3 on Sundays for an alternative
To liturgy. I bite down on a piece
Of sand and can’t eat anymore. The wasp
I killed that had been hovering around
One of the basement fluorescent tube lights
Wasn’t a wasp at all, apparently,
But a giant hornet (not the murder
Kind). On the floor, dead, underneath the fridge
It looked a little like a shrimp on ice
Behind the seafood counter, where you go
If you want them still with their legs attached.
It’s like there’s this mud or something— this thick
Lack of clarity mortaring things, or
Little apiaries shuttering in
Deference to the bears, who are hard to stop
Once they have a scent and a sense of place.
I love when the computer talks to me,
Reminds me that my payment’s been declined
Or that a favorite musical artist
Is coming soon to a venue nearby.
Last time in DC the parking was worse
Than the tickets, more evidence against
Cars, though without one idk how I
Would live— twenty minutes from town any
Way you take off the mountain & there are
A lot of ways, good for when the ground is
Wet and the old dead trees start to come down.
If one falls that’s too big for a chainsaw
It can lie there Brobdingnagianly
For days, or if you’re lucky maybe two
Or more neighbors can come help and between
Multiple saws and a few other tricks
Together you can cut and haul it off.
Today my debts are making me feel sour.
I talk to Jo about the word “is” in
A Noelle Kocot poem and feel better
For a while (🎼 My life… 🎵). I have heard the phrase
It’s only money twice in recent days
(Once from a poet, once from a parent)
And both times I felt bad, but for different
Reasons each time. Thinking of another
Job I pass a yellow ROAD NARROWS sign
(Pumpernickel and Mackerel are quiet
In their carrier, probably asleep)
Above a sign that shows my age in miles
Per hour, what I will turn this November.
Mackerel farts and the whole car starts to smell
But I’m grateful, I would have forgotten
To tell the vet how gassy he has been.
We’re almost out of all the kinds of food
Again, and I will take any guidance
Re: what to buy to save us from the fumes.
On the way back from the vet I drive by
The first shooting range over the state line;
There’s signs just before it and just after,
But the one after is down a hill so
When you crest it for a second you can’t
See the name of the range, just a bullet
With YOU JUST PASSED above it in all caps.
It’s a probiotic, and a special
Kind of food the vet thinks will do the trick.
There’s another supplemental treatment
That would be good but that I can’t afford
Right now. Plus I used the wrong credit card
So now all Mackerel’s inoculations
Are accruing interest; a financier
With a stake in this rabies medallion.
Gilbert Strang just gave his last linear
Algebra lecture and oddly it was
That, more than all the other signs of time
Passing I am inundated with, that
Got me. The sun and I were in a race
To burn out and I won, but the silver
Medalist, in this case, will draw the crowd.
[this is a placeholder more poem goes here
in fact maybe you could go ahead and
write it, like disaster, like disaster
in a milk-white dress, weddinged at Cana
the invitation is a little false
to set up a spot and step into it
monologue, no foundation on your nose
Pierrot told everyone he could juggle
the moon is at that stage in its cycle
where it’s lit as much as a piano
is white keys, Arlequin is less than half
Derain’s canvas but most of its color
Pierrot could almost blend into a cloud
Columbine just an idea in this one
safer for American reception
go ask ALICE, luminous mysteries
the tidepool, its biodiversity
middle school science everything you need
remember learning about the sphincters
our planet accreting its piles of trash
both pronouns there helping out w/the lie
who are the people still making music
who surprise and delight you, like maybe
you had thought they’d call it quits years ago
and then suddenly there’s this new record
a twelve-inch dark circle in a square sleeve
whose last groove (the record, not the sleeve) locks,
not the emperor’s or anybody’s
just a quick midnight regret idea
like pizza, tattoos, a Crunchwrap Supreme®
or something less circular, do you know
what you would like your next tattoo to be?
for me it’s either elle n’ignorait pas
by Anne-Marie Albiach or this line:
But the sad hotels are full (Mark Kirschen)
it’s not quite that I don’t have any faith
in pictures, there are cartoon possums I
would absolutely put on my body
it’s that if I had elle n’ignorait pas
on my forearm in the grave there would be
always that one particular question,
n’ignorait what, but the wedge driven in
to poetry is poverty and ink
is expensive so maybe we will wait
a lot of time left til eternity
less til heat death but who, who is counting
the sunsets, who’s out there tabulating
the way the year shifts underneath our feet
these lazy ones especially failing
the field sobriety test of meter
in almost every line except this one
and a few select others, Calvin and
Hobbes sledding wordlessly down a steep hill
in one strip from 1987
Calvin’s dad says, “NOW HERE’S SOMETHING YOU CAN
THINK ABOUT. THE AVERAGE COST OF RAISING
A KID TO AGE 18 IS $100,
000. THAT’S A LOT OF MONEY.
[new panel] SO THE QUESTION YOU SHOULD BE
ASKING YOURSELF IS, IS THAT HUNDRED GRAND
A GIFT… OR A LOAN?” The little bird’s nest
in the curve of the drainpipe’s already
empty, the geese who have been spring breaking
by the pond seem to have moved on to some
new fresh water & food source, insects corn
lettuce seed grain grass berry barley leaves
mealworms alfalfa a diversified
Diet of Worms where the birds stand & cannot
do otherwise, testament of late spring]
One of my favorite Norma Cole drawings
Is kind of confusing, figurally—
It could be a bunch of grapes, maybe, or
A big blackberry. There are circles, but
It’s like the circles are less important
Than the fact of their relation. Cole’s lines
Are accompanied by a newspaper
Clipping— attached probably by glue and
Complicating the whole composition—
that just reads, in full, “Uncertainty dogs”
Slowly doing better at the quiz show
Of your life. “Better the drunken gods of
Greece / Than a life ordained by computers.”
— James Laughlin, from “Dawn” (thank you Kim Dorman)
Thursday, feeling like a thug for J. H.
Blair more than usual, pulled a tick off
My leg in the office and felt outside.
Don’t Google “How many people in the
US are killed by stray bullets each year”
Or you’ll find the Stop Celebratory
Gunfire webpage and wonder how many
Images you’ll have to slip into poems
Before this particular écume on
The mass tide of death recedes into the
Royal Farms chicken sandwich billboard of
The soul. From Instagram: “Whom do we want
[T]o pay to imagine our souls for us”
— Ariana Reines. It’s easier, right?
Still more emails from the Swedish opera
That put on Lax’s Circus of the Sun
& gave me a free ticket because I
Couldn’t figure out how to buy my own,
Since my debit card doesn’t do euros
Or hates international transactions
Or I’m on a list, I don’t know. Rimbaud
Is buried in Ardennes, Tracy Chapman
Performs “Talkin’ about a Revolution”
From home, Adam & Eve leave the garden,
I read and post a poem about spring snow.
A woman with lung cancer is dying
Not just of the disease, but of the fact
She had to wait until her sixty-fifth
Birthday so she could afford to be di-
Agnosed. Pulpy kidney is a common
Infection in young lambs feeding on lush
Pasture; while they’re rapidly growing, a
Bacterium that should stay in the
Intestines can begin to multiply
Out of control and produce a toxin
Enough of which will kill the animal.
From a random page of today’s Houellebecq:
“Peut-être, quelque part, l’avenir vous attend.”
If you’re a villain, you begin with ten
Chips, but you lose one each day. If you’re a
Hero, you get ten days, and each day you
Survive you get a chip. The strategy
With the highest success rate is a mix
Of hero and villain tactics, losing
A little each day, trying to survive.
Krzysztof Komeda’s piano playing
On Astigmatic Live is a depth charge,
An allegation the rhythm section
Cannot beat. I don’t know how to solder
In a replacement thermal protector
For the fan motor, so I guess it’ll need
A new fan. That’s one of my favorite jokes,
Looks like your X needs a new X, but who’s
To say they don’t have one already, or
Two, or enough to clog the pushdown stack
Of memory to the point where you don’t
Have to do this, you know, continue on
The path of righteousness beset on all
Sides by the tyranny of evil men.
That’s not what I meant to say the other
Day when I got snippy with you, my bones
Were full of reasons to need money and
Their rattles & cracks got me panicky,
Made me forget the love letter feeling
In my stupid heat. A daffodil moon
Swims up through our awareness into day,
Decides to stay for most of the morning.
Maybe, somewhere, the future waits for you.
Sunday is the foxes’ day of rest. It’s going to get harder, no
minimum, reckless angels forgetting their power.
The two brothers who lived on the mountain
Were moonshiners, & stole each other’s still
So many times that local history’s
Relieved itself of any fact of an
“Original” owner; where the yeast is
Tickling the proofing parrot, where sugar
Conspires for two rounds of fermentation
Toward the sour fecundity of
Ethanol— that is where “ownership” lies,
If it is to lie anywhere at all,
As the brothers must have done on Christmas
To keep up above-board appearances.
Ownership is a word one says when scared
That the little interferences be-
Tween one’s own sense of cause or consequence
& another’s will grow to a choppy
Head, but you don’t really want to work it
Out, do you, all those pronoun shifts and o-
Verflowing bathtubs. The power strip floats
In a flip flop, I won’t be Gummoing
The whole rest of this but please bear with me,
There’s a coffee shop ten minutes from where
I live called Bullets and Beans where you can
Buy ammunition and caffeine with the
Same american money. It’s getting
Weird here, creepy and wet, room for sorrow
Pricier even as you don’t want to
Fill it with anything, or keep a key.
One of my favorite Norma Cole drawings
Is of a tree, or at least that’s what I
Could most readily recognize it as.
It manages quite a lot of texture
With only a few (8? 9?) pencil lines.
When Cedric sings “Turn the 8 into a
9” in “The Requisition” I don’t know
What he means, but I know what he means when
He sings on “Shore Story” about making
Them nervous on the phone, whoever can
Hear. Jack Spicer reads The Holy Grail drunk
& upends my whole life, that line in the
Book of Magazine Verse about the chill
In the speaker’s bones that runs almost all
The way through to the right end of the page.
“I am going north looking for the source
[O]f the chill in my bones.” It is boring
To write about not being able to
Do or pay things, but it is true, so I
Write it waiting for the dogs to show up.
When they do they will demand a leader
The same way a spring morning demands dew.
I thought the turkey was a peacock and
I even called her by the wrong name and
I don’t think either of them would be thrilled
By my misprision. Bye my misprision,
See you in the Pyrenees with the lambs.
Probably the most important factor in determining a person’s politics, that I have seen, is the way they relate to ideas of mass psychosis or mass delusion. If they think of it as a they or we thing, if they think we can be helped.
“2039 was the year we learned
[E]nough neural microarchitecture
& implanting to begin serious
[A]ttempts at ‘rewiring,’ though to call it
[T]hat alone is to miss many of the
[S]ocial and cultural reasons for why
[T]he practice became so widespread. People—
[P]hilosophers, theorists, ethicists, a
[G]ood chunk of the reading public— discussed
[T]he relative merits, rehashed Shelley
&c., but most people agreed
[T]o have it done in that first wave because
[E]conomical advantageousness
[I]s difficult to dispute. Companies
[P]aid for the procedures en masse, called them
Fellowships or similar names that made
[P]arents want them for their children, & that
[W]as that: the first fleet of implantees, once
[Y]ou correct for the deaths, was on record
[A]s the happiest, most productive group
[O]f workers the world had ever seen. They
[D]id their jobs— many of which were really
[H]andmaidenships to AI, like the old
[V]ideo captioners used to do, re-
[S]aying televised lines as slow & clear
[A]s possible to give the transcription
[S]oftware a fighting chance— with aplomb. Then
[T]he second wave, then Consolidation
[A]nd after that is the world we know now,
[P]leasure centers reordained to serve you
[I]nstead of the evolutionary
[I]mperative, so you can wake up each
[D]ay with the same thrill as if it was your
[F]irst day on the job again, everything
[S]till to be discovered, still as novel
& exciting as when you first became
[G]ood at your assigned tasks, when the firings
[I]n your nucleus accumbens give you
[A] sense of pride and accomplishment no
[E]xternal validation need bother
[T]rying to equal.” “The HDMI
[C]able as we know it became standard
[I]n part because it includes copyright
[P]rotection in its very hardware, and
HDCP (High-bandwidth Digital
[C]ontent Protection) was strenuously
[L]obbied for by Intel Corp. and others.”
“Lots of scary climate change statistics
[B]egin, ‘By 2050…’ but we’ve been
[O]ver 400ppm on the
Keeling curve for years, which we last achieved
[A]s a planet during the Pliocene,
[T]he first earthly period with horses.”
When you’re alone, sitting with the quiet version of your passion, a wreath of ice around your head, the mountain road curving—
What can the lamb say?
The theories think they’ve thought of everything.
La teorioj opinias ili pensis pri ĉio.
Teooriad arvavad, et nad mõelnud kõike.
Teoryang tingin inisip nila ng lahat.
Teoria luulevat ajatellut kaikkea.
Théorie pense qu’ils ont pensé à tout.
Teoría creo que pensaron en todo.
თეორია ვფიქრობ ფიქრობდა ყველაფერი.
Ich dachte an die Theorie von allem.
Σκέφτηκα της θεωρίας των πάντων.
હું બધું ના સિદ્ધાંત છે.
Mwen gen yon teyori nan tout bagay.
Ina da ka’idar duk abin.
. הכל של תאוריה לי יש
मैं सब कुछ का एक सिद्धांत है.
Kuv muaj ib tug kev tshawb xav ntawm txhua yam.
Van egy elméletem mindent.
Ég hef kenningu um allt.
M nwere Ozizi nke ihe niile.
Saya memiliki semua Guru.
Tá mé go léir ar an Gúrú.
Ho tutto il guru.
私はすべての教祖を持っている。
Aku duwe guru kabeh.
ನಾನು ಎಲ್ಲಾ ಶಿಕ್ಷಕರು ಹೊಂದಿವೆ.
ខ្ញុំមានទាំងអស់នៃគ្រូ។
나는 교사 다 갖고있다.
ຂ້າພະເຈົ້າມີຄູສອນ.
Doctorem.
Ārsts.
Daktaras.
Доктор.
Doktor.
Doctor.
Doktor.
Doktor.
Doktor.
डाक्टरहरु।
Leger.
.لگر
Leger.
Leger.
Léger.
Léger.
Леже.
Легер.
Leger.
Leger.
Børnene.
Børnene.
Børnene.
Børnene.
Børnene.
Børnene.
Børnene.
Børnene.
НАРОДИВСЯ додому.
.گھر ہوتا پیدا
Tạo nhà.
Creu cartref.
.היים שאַפֿן
Tẹlẹ ile.
Ikhaya yangaphambili.
Voormalige huis.
Ish shtëpi.
.السابق المنزل
Նախկին տուն.
Etxe zahar.
Стары дом.
পুরোনো ঘর.
Stara kuća.
Стара къща.
Antiga casa.
Kanhi nga panimalay.
故居。
故居。
Kuća.
Dům.
Hus.
Huis.
House.