a hawk without feathers,
skin, hollow bones,
its avianness severed by the wickedness it knows,
it sits upon a house,
the house that's always stood,
(by the cave with the painted walls,
after the massacre
of the neanderthals;
by the agora, where the voting took place,
in sight of which they signed
constitutions
and other contracts in black typeface;
by the workplace;
by the banks;
downtown,
between the metal-glass towers,
footpath from it
to the corridors of power)
out of time, it is: a Wormwood,
where men gather to unaffix themselves from the good.
the hawk has eyes of malice,
it watches as you come to the door,
inside, it smells of money, might and phosphor
us.
