The country that has a landscape like gods' knees
slathers road side ferns and tile tops
in sweat and dust.
The country that grows a man's
hands hard and weighty on his wrists,
fingertips swollen,
scissor curls a perfect magenta ribbon
from lip to every baby lip.
Their faces don't wrinkle when they cry.
The country that squares bricks,
so dives for coal,
stacks it
beside giant, alien chrysanthemums
They burn used vegetation like us
They bring down mountains like us
They say, no thanks, even when
they're curious like us
They puke like us
They whistle like us
Everybody whistles.
sept 27, 08
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