She terrifies her parents by walking amid
the olive trees. they say that there
is glass underneath the pebbles, sharp and broken
glasses, left by homer and
broken by Ulysses.
you can’t handle it, we rhymes words
here, beyond what you can imagine. we’re
new, physical, vibrations outside of
She takes up Jefferson Davis’s
pose, and freezes in bronze, the
winter’s metal, the one first smelted
at Mzaar. She falls in the future, when foreigners
touch her fingers, when they feel
what are fragments.