The border is a sponge soaked in honey,
actual honeycomb in places where the bees
have created a squat for a tinpot princess.

The nation is a hybrid, absorbing, reflecting,
coopting, reforming. A ceaseless wonder
quite unlike your inaugural lies.

The people hold small boxes labeled “dissent,”
each identical, pulsing with a power
that must terrify you,

you in your new sheets and the weight
of centuries staring you down from every crevice.

The moon is waning, the nights deep dark.
You are the man who stares starkly out,
unsleeping, unsettled, growing rancid with age.

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