The language has us by the throat,

Scorched utensils in a grid. Trained

Tracks, right of way, light

Of day. Enraged bodies whistle by

Cold soot, skipping space entirely.

Letters are so dense it’s convenient

To stop listening. Religious

Seduction scenarios replace

The melancholy human voice,

Its perfected products, trick photos.

Say I say sky, say the city

Of San Francisco sits beneath that.

Have you ever seen a school fence?

A sun set? Fields of speech

The anatomizing phonemes bark at.

A machine shop? In the light

Of the correct time, steel beams

Lift a low stone fog. Tires sing

On freeways that guard the views

From distressed housing.

Convinced condensed devices are at home

In our words. Not to be confused

With us or use. Remove

The caressed blossom, the rug’s still

Brand new, a vacuum.