Over the hill
another idol of dance and song has written his name
in concrete rubble.
We do these things lest we forget.
We’re good at stuffing our orifices
full of heroes.
Once I plastered a wall in hexagons
sat inside the prison cell of a bee
saw life governed by holy interferences
sheep for the slaughter
dogs at our bones.
Footsteps pot-hole years in the park.
Water splashes. Ancestral cravings
an advertisement’s head.
I show off my coat
ripped from another animal’s back.