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
mementos
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,
its forked
speech
flails and
the machines
and my people
are one