Christopher Columbus woke
and entered the galley like a fistfight. Houses,
he announced. Houses, clad in termite
tents, advance across deserts in innumerable
rows of brick and embittered bedlam.
Soon after mutiny revoked
his freedom, his dream died feverishly
in the pockets of Genoese contractors,
whose chivalry left them coatless
after every rainstorm, and the wilds
of America remained a theme
park dedicated to ghost stories.