XVII.

When the face collapses behind the countenance,
we are left with cities that cannot fold
like metal, like flesh. Spires stretch
across the earth, a glass monarchy

grows underground. Criticism is praise to
this monolith; its building back is open,
displaying an airy architecture of fear. Seamless
city of momentum, ambitious stalwart thrust

of a citizens’ pursuit of happiness certain
as place. I am a corpuscle who paces this
waterproofed earth, taking cross sections

flat as linoleum. My head is full of thoughts,
avalanching shards, the sound of future
footsteps on a found illiquid landscape.

XVIII.

It is a cold spring evening. I sit
Indian style in a leaning log cabin
and try to see dissent at the base
of my murky full cup. I read a book:

the story of a stowaway dressed
in a sailor’s suit, captaining his ship.
Rising, I kick the red carpet which
gets caught below my feet, trip over

a wrench suited for empire and ambition,
and get below my sheets. Breathing low,
I try to decipher between silence

and my home’s quiet. Where Li Po’s slow
brother sleeps, Nero rises. Last night’s clay
mug turns to gold, and my geographic chore.


XIX.

To the binds which yearn for peace, those cells
which crave not air but movement, in the way
that there is no object without space. Pockets
seem a diver’s weights and fire contained in head.

You envision a Midwest you’ve never seen,
while standing amid a village green halted
at doorsteps, ruled by the discriminating
logic of skin, the curious fear of wind.

To this, I say, burn the food in your cabinets,
take your sofa to the roadside at night.
Fasting and risk beget buoyancy when

our ship sinks due to the chandelier
no one noticed or needs. Minds rot in safety:
which means there is only one way out.

XX.

America, you breed small dreamers,
yet who can sleep under your setless sun?
You are a steady wind, a mangle’s gentle
current, drawing sensation and writing soft

roads. You send me into your paradox:
when you rescind my rights in order to save them,
when I thank you for helping me across your chasms,
when you protect me from the crimes you commit.

I do not know why visitors crowd to get
inside your empty vault. People here speak
as if your laws made their lips, as if your

expiration would mean their death. Do they not
see the cerulean sky forms a dome? Do they not
know there have been other houses in history?