The Nacreous Oughts

27 February 2012

the smell of dead things
at the desk where i write
banded shadows in the school zone
tick off the stations of this voyage
above me that abstract & unreal
nation unravels
& the roads crumble
into not-roads
& we will still use the name
long after anyone can tell
& what we are living through now
may by then be called
that fall amidst our speech unbeknownst
i speak them
to myself silently
as the sun comes up
over the highway bridge so full
of commuters


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