We can see the whole of Fairfield County from our plane, spread like jam or constellation;
below us in the creases of this city’s hands the houses stand military Moscow. Their veined
voltage pumps them full for all that is, begotten of wire, of widening sheen—
in downy unison they recite the Nicene Creed. From here we watch them glitter
when their lights blink, we like to see that neon patchwork swell. This city’s braced
with wire, electric energy tea-seeped sky—United Illumination needs more light to glint
off the whites of their corneas. President and CEO Frank Poirot removes his glasses:
There’s nothing but rock beneath these roads. And we’re germ-free
with our baby-in-a-babybjöurn and our frigid fingers. We are citizenship and brotherhood.
We’re residency and we are sterile nationality; we like our enzymes shipped us in boxes.
Our teeth are clean and our spines are straight enough. There’s nothing but rock—
And we’re glad he’s our spokesman, our Napoleon, he has ordered the cables into the ground.
So we ignore the land in all its rolling glory. Its layered splendor. The men
who have construction in their bones carve and carve and earth vomits stone.
The trunks of a thousand surgeoned trees will soon point skyward. Safe in our clean
machine we sip our bubble water and stretch our legs, we pray for buoyancy in air.