III Hollow Top: Freaks
Combing clammy, peopled tents
For the disfigured
For the murdering,
For my Cleopatra,
Has left me with lesions,
And my straight arms
Begin to warp and buckle
And gather the ashen blue mold
That grows between the recesses
Of World Fairs and erect skyscrapers.
A tall bluish Russian,
With broad teeth and fast sinewy lines
That thicken when the dwarves and giants
Begin to chafe her with their droning,
A high pitched whinny only I can hear.
A hushed noise that signals nothing but the shoveling
Of more ground. Stunted.
Only in her final form,
All deviant feathers and dripping eyelids,
Is she herself. Dingy and stamped
With the fermented anger of the others,
On her long white train,
Which drags in the sandy, peopled rings behind her. My Cleopatra, my America.