clouds of soundless heat
roil like fiberglass
cotton on our heads;

O god, who froths on peeled
billboards,

speak not,
for who could hear the word
through the
plastic in the cows

and the thick spit of
meatless factories
throbbing with sores;

ours is the sky
of glands,
secreting the
acid milk of a
thousand limbless
mothers

who thrash and screech
and birth methhead bodies
under black birds;

The flat videotape
of the plain erases
these children in cellars
and crawlspaces
so neatly
so cleanly

that
you would hardly
ever know that they
existed at all