The night
locked and cellular,
the landscape grows
increasingly perplexed
at the Color aspects
of American democracy,
asking questions about
the limits the social
can do. Autumn of police
shields. Sky’s dipper hangs
low; beanbag rounds
and iPhone glow. Graffiti:
This is my name – I existed,
like pulling a drop
from the drowning-river.
How language can
put one somewhere
and nowhere – a caged
on fire thing.
