in the fog
the American flag
ripples in the wind
like a wet dress caught
between the sea breeze
and a headless
body
I stare
rudely at her silhouette
atop the spire she
appears less crucified
and more delivered
than little me
who
breathes the dewy air
that falls from her
skin which sometimes
I pinch and tug at
and hold up to the
light
looking for some
essence of her
that unhinges
like the jaw of a snake
and plucks me
from my place
below
I stare
until she is dry
and has nothing left
to offer but the soft
flapping of something
cold and far and
nostalgic
I lift my hand
she is no taller than
my middle finger
and so I laugh
as my hot breath wanes
on my
dumb
glassy-eyed
hope