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.