State Department sponsored austauschülerins gravitating towards the innermost,
syntactically-warped,
clocks of Dresden. Straight-A schülerins, haughty and viral,
dummy-like beauties, meant to reproduce
war rooms, repeating the words
“citoyen du (monde.” Womb)
with chunks of broken off Berlin Wall wrapped in
old fashioned, cloth napkins—the trade routes blue-blooded varicose
veins, slow and fat. Boom to the haute-
route Alp or deep south
surveillance mechanism—all explosions need time—
to enact some backward, joyous revenge,
to practice Jan took my countdown pen--(the half life
of neptunium=2.14 million years) “War ist.
Du bist. Ich,” seen through the parabolic sketch
on the next page—notes
on the electron microscope, ties orchid to
its pole with a dollar bill.
Then Alice, the protagonist climbs the bust of Goethe, overlooking
some subatomic skull-fractured wilderness,
bombardment kissed (“you have
no accent”), then bused back to our separate
geographic hinges. I imagine
something in the trees ticking like ovens
accidentally left on, some genetically modified phrase or
drone eyes ablaze, braids down to waist,
yodeling like the age
reborn in its history of forgery.