America

Fighter bombers are playing above the Great Salt Lake,

safe in their own backyard. Four wheel driven

megabucket children measure the interstate through

endless permutations of franchises.

The old men's teeth are stones in a Normandy cemetery.

Their skins as thin as dollar bills.

Their gaze like desert air.

Women shop for this culture's consolations

whilst children get out of their depth.

and a gun stirs up the jabbering masses.

Out there in the brilliant stretches

of desert, green shot glass

grinds itself to dust against much older rock.

Once, in summer, in the hidden heart

of this Empire, golden Trinity

climbed up through the innocent air.

There is no confidence in these conceits.