Everyone in the country’s got a club foot
is how he heard that Law

of Identity—that work in which
each thing is identical to itself, like each suburb

with its microfiche, the blank on the tax
form filling a Herculean labor

of numbers with no place left
for doubt. Still

I can hear cars in your back
the singing bombs on the Champs

a History of Light printed inside


in the opening
threshold a Field

of Honor
from which


saviors

hammers

Light


introduces itself
to strangers

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