A City of Moving Parts --

Under the table, tabula rasa, we

seek Justice with an iron fist; Our

hearts are home for our Hearth -- Every

one of Us belongs in Time, sacrosanct; the

Air is resonant with Surprise and We, who

glance past the fog, can Adhere

to our Intent -- this

Scent emanates from Cadavers

left rotting in the Sun as We struggle,

backs against the plow,

our Inclusion here in Your Eyes -- What

dove circles slowly

in an amber mist? How

are we to Remember when we have Learned

to Forget, or so the Singer

said -- Pearls, there, at the junction

of hate and misuse, accumulate with

a pounding Terror; We outnumber

our foreign Selves here

with a hacksaw

and a Vise to hammer in those Nails

that boldly fasten

our Souls

together --