They wooden hut. They walk backwards.
All of them helmet-wearers.
One may sit in front of the shut-down hotel
slicing his egg. He may infant,
struck dumb in the meadow.
He may phone into the distance
and the distance may phone back.
In this way thinking spans themselves.
Without an anthem they go out
of their heads, so their sidewalks
are soundtracks. It comes in bunches.
It pops in boxes.
Day and night they trouble.
Even the dolphins are for sale.
Swan in no box. Ten on the hippo.
Their market mooing.
Their arguments leaking. Into it
smugglers and hustlers snuffing
small dealings. Into it antlers.
Their weather unwilling. They splinter,
joined again in cupolas,
in minuets. They creakbed.
That is, they burble and
the darkness burbles back. Sometimes
sisters. Sometimes dumplings.
A litter of clappers and chatter.
They smolder, keep quiet,
then flock to tables in twos
till the trouble stops.
Their borders are breakable.
Everything burns,
not even close. They so long
so well they’re already leaving.