They still purge the city of poets. It’s an ancient game
extracted like the good leaves, the ones you eat first.
We find ourselves again at this juncture, language
a utilitarian artifice, artificial, arc-en-ciel, feu d’artifice
Glued to an image
conjecture, color, perspective, topology, anatomy
Glued to a body
Wool. Gum. Gun. Wire.
We wonder, can they really be after us?
the universe, not expanding but stretching