Light the lamps for a government
of impostors—; their background check
will not work out.
The candidates start their idiotic speeches.
Their speeches sound like: boing.
They sound like boing boing. They go boing-boing,
boing-boing-boing. Out on the coast, a
yellow splits in two till only the visible
remains: near the dairy, such a calm
doctrine of mustard, a defensible
pageantry…underground, a host of black
syllables, rushing to the tribes—;
Walter Benjamin nods on the train;
he makes it out of Portbou…O Europe, your
childhood was a rupture: boys thrashing
through thickets, blisters on their knees,
thinking they would be safe in revolution
with an art too difficult
to be installed…& didn’t they care?
They still care.
Prince of Thursdays, the A
gives its legs to Autumn, your O
to the osprey. You never
doubted poetry —anxiously
taking vermillion tones past