Thousand-eyed glass coffin

reflecting the sun twice over,

chiseling it apart into a fly's perception

of the world.

Sheer gray cliff of television sets.

So many suns

regressed to a name.

I cannot descry the real

in this puzzle of echoes

nor my own face.

Like a motionless train

hoisting the earth

halfway to cloud,

speaking through our mouths

to the half-god

of soilless industry.

Urban pagoda, you magnetize

the iron in our blood,

remind us we are human,

not heaven,

and have forgotten

the religion of wind.

If it were mine to forgive

I'd sing old hymns

and praise you in poetry,

a marvel of new world,

a fist of well-constructed metal.

But I cannot find my way

out of your shadow

and your eyes confuse

my face with the sun's.

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