open top bus tour of Tourette, it’s

better read
at night
by firelight

than in the sun
with your sunglasses
shading the shapes

while shadows escape
24/7
you’re

periodically
torn into small
pieces

to drift
over
couples

or the little
saint in the pool
the sea anemone

over her waving
head
the incoming

particles
whatever
make sense

for a saint’s day
a little expense
worth wonders

momentos
buying causes
for peace

meanwhile my galaxies
quickly
depopulate

I’m gifted
with an indolence
of privilege

and escape
death
daily though

my tongue was
nailed to a tree
on fire

then, torn during
the daring
escape,

forked
speech
flails and

the machines
and my people
are one