Flies and a fan and a pillar
in this or that arch of the empire.
Space is such a pain; cars shooting by like bullets,
palm trees pinned against a wall,
a helicopter wasting away the above.
This is the world at one on a street
where the angles of architecture meet
and point west where the end of a tunnel,
unseen but assumed, is draped
with a blanket of crepe
that it’s easy to mistake for night—
[a woman’s mouth-made swearing]
CLEOPATRA: And I’m entangled with it.
And now: what to do with the fact
of the once-blue above, the mind cloud
tinted pink with particulate matter—
a pollution that looks like a postcard.
CLEOPATRA: I’m saying yes to whatever
you’re saying: an asp in a basket,
betrayal and horror, a room that tilts inward,
natural vice, the smell of sweat,
wasted lamps, petty lives born to murder and war.
The delicate undid disaster of all good things.