Out here in this country of unending sleep,
I inherit horses in winter
and blowing hands;
above the clouds, and the televisions of L. A.
(where once a blue whore danced on a powdered mask),
a woman is broadcast on air,
a former debutante manipulated by plastic surgeons
and ultimately disposed of by parapsychologists
in the Pentagon.
Out here in the shadow of a paradox,
I huddle in wonder, decomposed but undiminished
while a hundred warplanes
fly over toxic foam (oceans and technology),
breast implants found hidden in the hospital gown
of a surrogate
mother.
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