Joe

There were eggs glued in mucous

to the underside of gold leaves.

You read us and we grew to a bursting

in a land of plenty. Our yolks yoked to you.

Our sweat crusted lips. Our thirst

to please you. A hunger to please you.

A knife for America to be us

in a golden beehive.

Behave the surgeon's hand -

the light of the blade to cut us, the salted angels,

from a burning tree.

Believe escape is the wind and a twig dipped in your eye.