And there it is, billboard-style across the eyes, the old

rectangle of yesteryear, some dude unafraid of heights

high up on the scaffolding, long-handled brush in hand,

patiently pasting the supplied images of penitence. Or

now it’s digital, flashing multicolored pixels of alternate

worship—Jaguars, jewels, jambalaya, gyms—an iris-full

of ideology/idolatry, depending on the pupil’s dilation and

lack of light. Or strike-line protest, political picket chant-

ing for the spotlight of your attention: they’re here to hear

what you can and can’t see. Hold the stick high while

the horizon tricks with its climate and crowd-shifting.

Hey,
you/
me
there/
here,
listen/
look.
Don’t
walk/
drive/
run/
away
from
what
you/
me/
we
don’t/
won’t
know
how/
why
to
hear.