_all the kings horses_
Body puzzle, where to begin
to put you back together again?
Sun-yolk spilt, my split heart
plump with thieving (even
that isn't mine)
_________________Like
a pencil the missile moves
over the city; outline of streets
and houses traced and tensile.
Soldier, isotope, when you
report the green sunset
and how the halos bloomed
and the ash clouds bundled
one thousand shovels,
the budding pacers
made from prosthetic
transplants, silk lantern
engines fit for larceny, become
sails knit together with
shrapnel, a place for roofs
to grow if it finally rains.
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