They won't let us, like the sparks--
they don't want but still they touch--
positive attraction and minimal
sun, light growing through the slits
of the sheet etching vines to walls--
we sit like the captured electric,
the dead union pole outside knocked
down as we sit and side with sores.
Bruises shotgunned into the red whole--
devoid of cancer and bubbling spirits,
this situation leads to lead poisoning
and testosterone (which you know as code)--
Before gulping down fresh air through
bags attached alongside our chairs,
we sat gazing into the Portal, aflutter,
hearing its voice calling its own name--
I know you, bird of sound, and we
will rock this boat until an outage
of power breaks our backs into kindling,
but first, pass me one of those pomegranates.
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