the philosopher's tradition leaves us just bones,
twisting in the wind of command as we make our
quiet way to all these broken corners; no matter
the world seeing us stand our haunted ground, we
are silent and we have been here a very long time.
there is no end to this imperial skin; it bleeds us dry
as the streets of Paris open and make amends, turn
a burning bow of contrition and it is those voices again
crying out from our marble-veins, monument risen and
forgotten and nothing much matters-
we do not get news from home.
in the truck, alexandre lights a cigarette and waits for
the radio call, his black hair curled in tropical sweat as
the day crests its arched back and readies the grand
awful sun for its noontime height. he has a photo of his
daughter on the dashboard. she stands in a green field
and wears a yellow dress and here, the language we
imprint sneers back at us from below, always waiting
out this hottest exposure and night comes quick, a
thudding empty promise that opens all the eyes around
us, the country shuddering beneath our boots.