The movie starts with a man taking pictures of himself, like all movies do,
like a woman peeling onions, one layer, one translucent film at a time,
blurring her eyes with teats, Sorrow does this. So does mace. So do peppers—

moments like this one, the green carpet
looking for once just the right green,
is it the lighting, or your shadow thrown

Learning to say “So what?”
in every other language,
I rolled between cities 

There is a woman living inside
that man, deep in his chest, almost
in spite of his life. She is beautiful

I wanted sky. That was my ambition. And now I’m being tugged 
Up a small steel mountain,

A burly chain beneath the car hauling my weight 

And so,        my father rode the devil
out of the Kawasaki        1300-cc six-cylinder
I’d wash Sundays.        We, the Kingdom Riders.

I sit on a bench eating cherries,
Amazed that I wasn’t cheated,
For the whole bag is ripe and deep red.

Sweet element, disguise,
like a partial illustration—
it is our own inviolable corruption.

When the husbands turn their noses up,
the wives are distraught. Some buy chic new clothes
or sheer lingerie, while others will intentionally do neither.

You were not there when the bombing started;
you were not there when the others were not there.