(published online by Backwards City Review Volume 1, No. 2 SPRING 2005)
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse
I tip my hat to the inverted dome on Church Street
like an eyeball scooped out of the skull.
The bell of sovereignty has cracked.
This country’s cleavage is exposed,
and the world is drooling.
In hell, the phone rings off the hook.
Around me a gathering of second-wind patriots,
shoes shined at the altar of Wall Street.
Red dust settles on the exposed thighs of lady liberty,
wax drips onto skyscrapers, coats the city in oily residue.
Buildings iced like wedding cakes after nuclear fallout.
Time to erase the message left on your lover’s answering machine.