Bright epistolary fog obscuring all our cars
Makes me nervous. What if we didn’t really
Own them? Make my Pope a car maker.
Manufacture my bruises of consciousness
From television spots. I’m so resistant
To clean speech. It fades like
On a cold day: retreat into cavity.
I’m incessant as well, calibrating.
Walk, walk. It’s not absurd if your
Flailing.
Look, the bombs are falling on us too.
Wave to the pilot, he’s got a family
To think about.
If I sign up, I’ll be a proud truncheon
You watch. Now, be this color,
Airplane metal on skin reflected.
Darling? Have you seen the car?
It looks like an army stumbling
From the obscure.
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