Affixed to upper balconies of the World Bank

bolted-in speakers imitate seagull calls

a message to real seagulls about the arrangements

capital does and fails to concede

unless I do sums right I may hear

beyond invisible gulls

one star scraping against another

unless I permit myself to hear

clearly in the star-proofed capitol

I may turn into the instrument my pursuer

plays my own song upon

affixed to high eave

I tape gold stars on the news for this fever

I move into like a segment

World Bank is a reddening tomato

a burnt-clove smolder beyond the hill

laundry chemicals drift from rooms

beside the World Bank contractors’ entrance

this language will be extinct in a hundred years