Rail thin giants on the horizon, communicating breathlessly
with the syncopated arc of blinking red. On the coast, clams
and oysters bury feetroots into salted sands. One man made,
one archaic, both habitual. Underground, men and birds as

machines; they are cell-towers screaming with wire’d
throats and ocean-thrust’ed molluscs swallowed
deeper, deeper in. Little girl with neon bucket and
sunscreening nose cries as her shovel washes
out to sea. Little girl with coal streaked nose

cries in arms of her just-barely older brother,
now a man. The sirens, like juéwàng, a country’s
sorrow, a dilapidated hollow of walls and bells
and smoke, of bleating men like cow’ring children.