When asked Why here? Mao said We didn’t pick it

Here is a slab of If Here is a set of appropriate roles; armed in cinema

Armed against No one was here I see you, us. Someday Our arthropod utterance

Intention alone is not dialectical or petroleum or vaccine patents

Is it too late for analysis?

What filled me with the limbs of little girls, plumes of suicide, what fed my grandparents rotting vegetables rationed in the camp of illegal flowers

Unrepentant, sunlight can lay eggs like a spider mother, a season before death

Love has ruined my life Love made useful by class— remnants of murdered trees, imaginary debts

Translated into adhesive, anemone venom green slippers at the portal of beetles

I have come to terms with failure as a contrabass in the spine, implacable echo of goddamn

I still love the people more