The sun sits thoughtfully on the brow of a cloud while
bleeding citrus, and writhing cumulus pulls a slight across the sky.
And we, a generation of egocentric alloys
breathe our words of dusk across these lands.

And a conquering is merely an embrace—
a bridging of this culture to that,
an exhale of minority,
exuberant in their chains.

The suns sinks, furrowed, folded
as we—commander seek refuge beneath its solid breadth,
a hazing of rays & then
sinks low, redeemer.

These vices in which we glorify their capture—
a glass of Jack’s, Marlboro Reds, tighten
as their generation of problematic clauses breathes easy
beneath the surfaces of modernization.

The eagle sings, but chokes on the scent of her bleeding people.