Modern Ghost Dance

voices called from the glass forests

into a world where birds

mimic the sounds of cameras

of garbage trucks

as the flickering screens of fluid robots

validate our feelings

some hapless gold pendulum

of rhomboid pills blanking the mind

the hum of electric fountains at night

air in the foyer

mosquitoes floating over a parched stream-bed

the moon's colors breaking through languid trees

we are walking up to the tower

the mountain taking the weight of our knees

twilight years of the old garden keepers

pulling chains of their idle dogs

from a grave of red mud

and like the phoenix of their names

they may return with the crackling of

dry teasel in the dead white of winter

the tacit language

all eyes and knuckles

at the foot of the rock