blood-clots hanging over 
a threshold of teeth and tongues — the
propaganda 
you reheated last night in a soviet microwave
and left in a saucer
over the back-porch of your big tent
for the mewling
roadmap-faced angels 
to drink and
slink 
back to their 
kittens already high on poly-adjectival revolutionary tendencies.

Circa summer 2020.