An Incoherent Response

I accompany your robust models
down streets into a past when they wait
     ugly by doorways. 
I stumble upon them, asking their help,
listening to their incoherent response
in the light of a street lamp.

Look at your models weeping,
and you call it radiance.
If your hurried throng presses any closer,
I might gain literacy in its chaos.
Industrious masses, compare my company
to the approach of sleep.

I cry out to meet the architect of this forest.
I will wear his headdress and his footwear.
I respond with a ferocity of finite adaptations.
My ears return as birds of prey.