The wasp, the ocelot, and the elder go
as a group to communicate
with a far-off shadow continent.

The wasp is weighted low in the air
by the ocelot's fur; the elder
pets it raw and bald with his good hand,
holding the tithing platter in his crippled,

stood stiff on a laser-outlined sci-fi
platform on the watery hearth
of the brickless age.

His smile has the dubious fortitude
of day-old concrete. His hands
are the wings of birds
held together by wire.