There is no shame here.
What’s been broken remains.
The crown of Queen Anne’s lace,
the barrow’s wheel,
the pickup’s rusted fender.
A median has been reached.
Angels rest in swollen ponds
thumbing for weightlessness.
Women in burned furs strut a pulpy stage.
While cameras flash, everything undulates.
The light is so warm
it’s like being blown up
and the sea’s metal waves
gleam and gleam.
The gods are near.
Here your voice is tireless.
Here there is no wonder, for all is wonder.
Silver. Exactly.