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Primal Facades

A bus passes on my way into town

and I shout at its passengers,

“we aren’t well assembled!”

My head quivers.

I stride carefully past merchants

drinking coffee and selling magazines

on the sidewalk’s stark eternal lines.

I can’t talk to them.

I’m overwhelmed by the disfigurement

of flesh in the world of geometry.

So I become an obelisk

standing in a bed of leaves in a park.

I would strangle the town’s small facades,

but I have no arms.

The high moon slinks over me.