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Pigeons puff dust of seasoned salt
a cage of cameras
wielding institutionalized bodies

feral cats perched in branching air
teeth at the wind's edge to gnash
or grin at what pours over the sides

a childhood rain from a stadium ceiling
the crystal of civilization
where dead conversations graffiti the mind

when the country came too close
we held hands and jumped onto its forested boundaries

where the street's become a cage
she's an ivory-smasher
seated on a glacier's child
back of the dream she organized
my head will go bald in this room

she's a day-reducer
a full tub of evergreen fingers
my life performed in a nimbus of burning money

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