You would turn away the Christ. Every border weeps,
Remembering the time before they were deified.
Adrienne is departed, but before her sweeps
the memory of ghazals, imperfect, left wanting
by this impoverished tongue, this pale mortar weeps –
it has spirit, and it tries, and fails to outlast.
The bricks have been lain too fast, sir. No more, yr steep
pillage through the lower alleys of America.
Ain’t slumming. Concatenation of fascist creeps
has launched your ass into the big chair. You listen
at doors that open to rooms
named for men
who, without a drop of internet,
would find rage unknown at your cowardice.