Thrice Arisen

When they come openly and with crumbs
down the hills of sunlight, I think of routine
and other clearing away. One day a man in rags,
undone by the state and misrepresented desire
(to be meaningful), the next a shelter, a couch
in leisure, reposed of vinyl, wrapping arms
of product, howling a maniacal obfuscation
of process. Now these legs, on thin memories
of muscular momentum come at me as though
I’m peeking from a manhole in the street.
They are white, faces, round half eaten themselves
and stained of teeth like the new Southern
Aristocrat, proudly denuding the landscape
in search of self-supporting decrepitude.