The imperfect products of the nation-state
lose their pitching arms, are torn, kicked loose
in fields of tan roil where compasses dizzy
amid dreams and despairs
of exostellar clockwork. They have faces
and fall ungently. There. Bereft
of cinema. Salts bring them round
enough: notions and bodies are magnets
for perforations: just think
of each alien real splitting the skin
into a terrible gasp, think how long it takes
such fragments to leach through
the bottom of a coffin, the close room
we wear to the twilight of not being
anymore present. One presumes
until weary and afraid. Sees
a wine bottle slip from stunned fingers.
Sees the sudden blitz of monsoon
coming down in the middle of sheer daylight,
volley after volley of wine bottles
shattering on the streets, on the cars,
beside the baby strollers, please, slicking
the marquees. Carpet. Shards. Prayer.
At the stoplight, between an open window
and the Wig-O-Rama on the corner
shimmies a pick-up whose bed
is packed with outmoded wheelchairs
like collapsed accordions. Every available surface
grows an eye. And then it is as if
something red begins to speak.
