America tangle with me, hybrid with me
and what bored surveillance footage,
stored in decades of black and white?
The roar is a wound.
Top 40 songs grow from it. Grow through
each finned speaker like a bad crop.
Someone taps me on the shoulder,
mistaking. Was I the good lover,
given over to the motions of goodness?
Screams: a blur of upside faces.
O from the cramp that many people
in a line is at last we are here
at last, America, climbing shakes
the wooden ties, up to where sweat makes
Rorschachs of the girl in front’s shirt
and desire does horrible things to our body
pushed and held back into the seat.
Plastered there as we summit.
Look: the skytower, the parking lot’s rows
of palms and chrome. We fall for
minutes into loveliness. And the
downward sky is endless. just a shade
of yellow on my brain where America
is nervously pressing its finger.