Guards stood tall. United keeping their balance over parcels. Now they tell you take off your belt. The impression received: every advance serves a purpose. A higher purpose according to those hoisted in disarming breeze. Purpose in a word is metonymic for devastation in dance, collapsing under our own glare in supernumerary haste, minor readjustments in body politik on a purely intentional scale opposite a line-up of out-of-control voice forms.

Then ballet natives yield to a rush of idols and new people center stage... my right, your left.

*

Dispatched for
chaos

yet
subjects of desire in another sense, an echo
understanding from Q’s & A’s in visible
twin lights
Minimalist
and suddenly just theory.

Awing in a wolf’s regime,

there’s brush
fire toward mosquitos — shot
through the throat, asking too much.