A wall of cops moves like a wall of water on a barge, no beauty.
A wall of iron swallows the woman who falls to the ground and keeps falling.
There’s a video.
The picture stays intact, again.
It’s not pretty, meaning it’s hard to watch.
When a poet says we have to keep our eyes open,
I know who he’s talking to, I don’t listen,
or I listen enough to hate him.
If I say the woman dragged by her hair, if I compare it,
I “witness,” meaning stood by the window,
meaning shudder, let hand fall gently over lips,
pulled coat tight, tighter.
A wall of cops bucks like a frightened boar.
If I describe it, will it speak?
If I say it came furtive and dressed in red,
the cops think cop thoughts.
The cops move.
They walk like a walk, like an economy,
which after all is a fairy bucking with hunger.
Not pretty, not picture.
I follow the border patrol agent through the airport,
thinking fast thoughts, blood fast, bloodhound steps.
He buys a burrito.
If I say he stood alive in line, and my friends are afraid
to leave their bathrooms.
My friends who I love and love and…
my friends who eat from plates,
who plug cords into machines for singing.
If I say a wall of men standing on my friends’ necks,
if I describe it, my friends, who slice plums illegally on soccer fields,
whose knees move like knees into the grass if I name the grass,
if I call sweet liquor and smoke,
if I say cloy, if the child shrieks as she’s swung,
if the sun, if August,
if blue juice, will it talk?
The cops are thinking cop thoughts.
They move with a wall inside them,
answering machines, answering.
The window rattles, and I fall to my real knees.
If I hoist my friends up so they can be seen by whom?
If say they are beautiful, if I compare,
if the sun touches the glass, and I feel it.
I try to hear the border patrol agent order his food.
I listen long enough, then walk to my gate.
I feel ashamed and put it in my sleeve and later I make it a picture,
The wall moves like a fairy,
like a woman through an airport, like a wall.
If I say I watched the woman brought down by her hair
and watched the woman cry and cried.
If the storm skips my door again,
if I leave to kill another goat,
if I promise my crop,
if I paint the wall up and down in sacred W’s,
if I make it any color,
will someone put it in her mouth?
If I close my eyes, imagine it,
if I imagine it,
if I think of something to say, the cop speaks,
and I call a plum into his mouth.
It doesn’t shut him up.
The cop kneels in the grass below my friends.
My friends crowned with August and salt, my marigold,
They laugh like a branch laughs.
They make machines for singing.
If I say a palm in the small of the back,
if I say sun-warmed glass,
if I say sun glass breaking open the gate.
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