pits stabbed with rebar, t-boned
Lamborghinis, a cat’s cache of songbirds

say yes and yes with all cells tensed
and if, to hear, I hush too much

as hinges strain, as workers rise up
to spark their carburetors’ hearts

I nurse the red-stained multiplex
in which no cuffed or spread-eagled witness

records what no white-throated lily
reports to any authority: such bruises

our gods admit to spirit
around, beside, beyond, within

as ants steer a nation toward traces
of dew, I let the child I got by accident

fall for the world as it is
full of rumors