with seeping death--
where is the programmer?
How do your sealed doors bang?
When the tumults of constructed green
soar skyscraper high,
and spout unrooted waterfalls
from hologram bouquets
where do the framed clouds fly?
In a wet perch of departed autumn
far between dancing cliffs
I am watching airplanes
wrapped in cloth
fall into a mechanical anthill
of liquid fire.
From a barbed wire coffin
from a chain link net
of sacrificed bikinis,
I fold my hands and levitate
and laugh.
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