state house fairground

I crossed the bridge into the desert,
time accosted me like a fortune
stolen, robbery-smiths nations
come alive with the driven monastery
alliances of firearms of misery
of millions. Come gunsmiths,
come baby carolers like the
mono-stream vacuum of love
and trust and vacant descent,
development fordo cold sweat
cries in the patterned ashtray
of holy brother’s confessions,
wading into sandhills like
streamlets hovering on hindsight.