She won't smile the smile of incineration. 
They won't sing the song of disintegration. 
Together sprung, noise music, see-through mirrors. 
 
Locusts spin in flurries. They have begun to fly. 
The bobtail out the back is fat. Crow feathers 
are strewn over acres. Rings forming 
 
in the bright sky. Their descent is known. 
The ladder is propped up against the rainwater 
tank--have to ascend to clear the leaves 
 
from the grille, but she would only have me descend: 
precarious, I perch. My ears are giving me hell. 
Two days ago we drove down to Arcadia. 
 
Into Arcadia along forestry roads, rutted 
by logging trucks filling the quota. The protest 
Camp with its wire and papier-mache 
  ...

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