The protest went nowhere, yet
the colored lights on the columns spoke movingly.

If God is a mountain, are all mountains gods?
Every time, I fall victim to the plot.

Baudelaire stubbed out his cigarette, the end
turned green by absinthe on his lips.

If you give an engineer a poem, she can build a bridge.
Flower my heart, three-visioned God.

I went out to the hazelwood, because a fire was in my hands
Leaf out my heart, three tonguéd God.

Gather them all in—the singers, the blatherers—all in one tomb,
and let the young in layers of sound-smothering cotton

dance all around, all singing elegies and riddles
to their black-glass screens. They believe in binaries.
I ripen circuitries, answers fall like apples.