The land’s forever making noise
of rise and fall, the grand parabola.

But must it always paraphrase?
The moon can’t blink its shining cornea

toward the setting sun. It’s in the line
of fire, it’s hit by little sparks.

And they, neutrinos rich and bored, will pay
a kiss for a kiss for – POMPEII:

your talk of exes going nuclear, your video
countdown to the end of a casino –

maybe down the crescent of the bay
above the belt of Verrazzano.

A second city then will crack up
beside the one in need of backup

and no harm done, no need to be on
a packet to pave old Île d’Orléans.


The city’s an amphora, broken-dishy.
The bits were nicked to model demolition.
Stacked and drowning, stacked and drowning.
The qui vive is the salt spray owning
knowing bunkers defunct since Vichy.