A grim electricity ignites 
from somewhere strange, 

like those old 
eighteenth century

periodicals. Ink
drawings of doves 

falling into the lap 
of an archer, total 
disorder,

which Baudelaire despised
for being too smitten, too proud.  
In some pictures, 

a king’s soft rosacea
masks his fear of the masses. 

And the workers slouch 
beneath mostly invisible 

clocks. Clocks tall as buildings. 

Very rarely, people 
live to see a common story

annihilated by shifts in reason. 
The red snow falls and even mystics 
call it God’s mistake. 

Staring into the sun,
that insane light, 

do you see why the pony
bows his head toward

the sound of man creating tackle?

After revolt, everything 
feels so slow and listless. 

Years of figurines arranged
into someone’s legible 
empire. Martyrs take beautiful 

bribes, though, coats 
made of ostrich. And

all the books say the same 
thing about becoming a person:  

do it everyday, 
then quit.