My pieces scattered,
no more sacred 
than dust 
on the wind.

Lately, the outside
world has felt 
cold, foreign,
and alien.

(Especially anything 
American.)

Of course, being in this
wave of blue,
I would be hacked 
to death.

I feel innocent in my arrogance. 
A drudge to the syrup tin,
cheap and sufficient—
the honey hoarded.

American

Are we junk?  Waste,
Shard and smear,
Empty symbol made by
“Doled out Poet’s papers,
Hoarded like sweets?”

Our awkward secrets 
			stumble
				cislunar.