What do you feel, tell me what do you feel
when the birds get lost in red
and you’re steadied against a wall, your pants
split and hair disheveled as if you’d just
killed a president.
What do you feel in the reddening hour,
in the agitprop hour, boots sinking
into the snow of an avenue
where no one knows you.
Forked tongue of knowing how to be alone and images
that destiny (so pleasant) drags
beyond the hills.
Tell me, what do you feel. What color
do your remarkable eyes turn then.