Outrage fatigue, whether as refugee or migrant, so
You spend the money: watches, colognes, a thin slice
Of the Fukang meteorite (most beautiful metal ever
Seen and heard of). Because we need some new notes
On gesture: to be is to be perceived offended,
To catastrophize on a monthly if not weekly basis.
You now know castles do not really glitter: waste
Needs more time to register on the continent. But
Your passively disaffected mien ends up reflecting
An entire city of men who do not wear hats: only hools
In hoods, what a country, what submission.
Birch silver plus an odd algebra of faith: to overuse
A “calculus of violence,” to say every third generation
Makes the money. But note that in The Big Book
Of Asshole Manners, they say you must do your best,
Despite the language barrier, to intercept and disarm
The Slavic swerve even on the brightest of days.
“I lay this shit before you,” with a Costanza-like grace
So that what is over when it is not really over
Can continue to nullify sacrifice with reward, speak
With flawless grammar, and remain exiled where
So many men happen to look like your father.
So much for this rigorous not-needing-to-know
Knowledge: you can see how those who keep unfree
Struggle for what they cannot even know. Like a ship
With only one sail still smashes the concomitant ice,
By now we are used to this rubble, to how this part
Of the world evinces social permission through displays
Of neglect: look at their lawns so far from the
American grain, look at their shoes, look how
The villagers on Sunday evenings return to the city,
Their suitcase wheels rolling into the week’s cacophony.
But by now you see that the one who feeds pear to
The ladybug with two damaged legs is the one for you.
Because who needs a look through the lens on an America
You feel guilty about not waking up in to realize that?