You are fools of silence. I flee

to a London rooftop in June, listen

to Fred Again blow cigarettes of sound

towards harpsichord harmonizing sun.

Is this Dalston? Croydon? There are so many trees.

I’m waiting for the Pope to start a podcast & play

Quiplash with Dakota Mortensen’s Mom. Ad reads

on competing podcasts — Sports Bets w/The Anti-Pope —

tell us Louisiana swamps were always intended

to swallow those who weren’t white men. Crocodiles are

pinned to the sides of fishing huts because they opened

their mouths and certain people thought that meant

they were going to talk. Silence is not survival. Dancing

is not a cure-all, despite the triumphal way all the rooftop

pretties gently finger gun the air. Power dreams of math.

Democracy dreams of wings. I step to the edge of the roof.