Part I
the charred cadaver rotates and rotates, on a spit borrowed from the pappous down the street.
melting icesheets, slowdown in China, asylum seekers drowned in the Aegean Sea.
oh, look—little corella. Nah, nah, that’s gotta be a cockie.  
the ice-blocks bob and clink, clink, clinketty clink in prettiest pink sangria.
Part II
dad used to say the bird’s eye is a window to providence or some shit like that. 
the backdrop of suburbia can be discerned against the faint whir of the machine. 
identity is experienced only as some never-uttered yardstick to measure the world by.
the baby soft soles of his feet poke out from the ends of his jeans.