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.