False Consciousness

Oren Silverman

Moreover works as well as any forest on an interstate’s outskirt, you can’t see
and bite the panorama   you remember standing back of a backlit scaffold 
with plants hanging from diagonal bracing, testing the odds, barely keeping it
together you wave from the panel shorn under helicopter’s wind-mown air

Where’s the caterpillar claw  Where’s the graveyard with the park built over it
a rude insistence of tough meeting at vertical centers   I have no sense of direction
but want to be cast in the image of content giving rise to a five foot poppy
I can almost stand under   Is this the right side of history or do you have to live

long enough to become a triangle, asymmetrical as any choice before choosing