Ley Lines

We called our difference laurel,
yanny. Cruised the rendered lawns

of Hudson Yards. In the afternoon
of the Trash Revolution, filigreed

the long shadow of Epstein’s former townhouse
with food scraps, kiied under perforated stone

faces of actual devils: facades
in the geomancy, their insides renoed

the smooth beige spirals of shells, gestures
to acoustics. Heard the sea explain

our own blood through us, knew
the same hot sand freaked us

round, white, and valuable.
We slept on ley lines,

worked in Business Improvement Districts.
We sold clothes to the families of celebrities.

We were perfectly aligned with a distant empty sky-
scraper. The price of water went up

at all the hot dog carts. We settled for Pepsi.
In the City of Yes, smelled like new

suits among men. Defended
bad Glambots—their ritual

makes pigeons doves. But pigeons busk
and work for the government. Bouncers

put us in their microwaves. We hid
our drugs inside us. Even lower

animals danced. Our bangs got wetter
as the song became . . . Remember: Nothing

at the mudflats but the mudflats. A bolus of salps
cleared the beach like an insulin. We released

our butterflies from little crimson envelopes.
Mine had a hot neat death in the grass.