that one grows, until his forehead
is a vista of meaning. His dashboard
becomes a part of it, then his eyes
are imprinted with a historical map
of the sun. This unhealthy mammal
bribed the best of public men to rip
the cloth from his eyeless torso
in universal public. He can't stop
the orange trees from growing, or turn
gasoline to water.

That man would rather be a woman of his own
construction, a steakhouse mirror, a champion
of imaginary sports arenas, gleaning
ancient televisions from a belched wind
of statistics. He has wings now
that are different from what he imagined,
from what can be imagined.