Over pulsing carpets of people,
our giant lung
plastering majestic ideology
all over the young scene.
From up here,
leaves fall to form macro beasts,
seasons head east,
and the sun consumes a cornea.
I couldn’t find the camera
in her purse
or her glasses.
just manila chap-stick
wrapped around napkins,
my only object-cathexis
not swallowed by the hot organ.
We,
giant objectives,
slowly circling a cul de sac.
She,
my ragamuffin,
once beautiful bag lady.
The one in Hawaii
renouncing cats in sermons,
on the soil of an orchid farm,
to an alligator-skin father.
her penny shoes
tied together
like symbols of graphic unity.
And by visions from a north,
we are connected through phone lines,
cup and twine,
to an old dark at the end of a south.
