a rain of angry hands upon the airport
piles of multicolored helmets
in front of government houses.
a haircut for all trees near to our channeled
electricity, one thousand bees
clotted in the air like a flash of TV
static all over, for hot orange hours
on the porch, extraneous nipples exposed
to the useless sun
to the useless moon
the one local satellite hovers
near all weather-causing stations
in a hurtful mirage.
the many hands win nothing
with their protest-worship
the great machine gun
continues to dominate
the gentlest air.
a rain of larger and larger nothings
on the lightyear-dampened sun
receding to make room for its younger