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You can clean the dirt from the face of the debutante girl
or catch a ride to the protest, if you don't care,
ride porch-rail cavalry off the parties
or plant rust and honey in the sideyard colony.

In this town it's roots rust moss and anarchy
she said, and fed me mustard and honey in the rainshine,
and you can trace the veins in seven bridges bowing, but we
burnt those temples long
ago.

And I don't know much about that, I thought, but we
look for what we're missing. Come home to exile in immigrant city
with a thousand dirt-smeared faces and a raining heart.

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