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.