I have heard war whoops
barreling down Walnut at Nineteenth.
I have felt a tongue like an old brick
between my teeth. When the parish
releases a song, spheres of slightest blue
collide with not-there Indians.
Paths encase grass,
grass encaves earth and earth
is these buildings, these awful stories,
these tails and the shit that falls out
into smallish civic spaces held safe
by fences of bells. Spires
dwarfed by condos.
My vehicle tips over in the wind,
but strong like buffalo gut thread
needled through fingernail, nobody
asks after nobody. A fridge leaks
coolant into desert dirt and the baby
is carried softly away, daisy-chained and
crowned with bell tops of moon though
it’s just now dusk. People are asking
for answers and the only thing
is that dead copper sun held aloft
by two small rusted future eunuchs.