Illustrator: Hannah Grubbs
and one below.
A heavy crown of fishing line
wraps around my gilded horns.
All rise. Our disappointed providence,
met with pasted icons and sacks,
runs the freeway inland to Puritan
cemeteries. Our sublunary hopes
reside in this photograph you see
before you. Our orbit indicates
darkly, at its center, a childhood floor.
On each ferry ticket he saw, perhaps,
these words: There is thunder where you are.
Lift your bronze voice to our flagrant
delight! lift your bronze foot: I fucked up
this time. Lift your hands. You will see
God's most perfect unhappy creations
shake apart their lifting domed wings.